Benevolence and Belligerence
by wolfluvermh
Summary: It seems that fate has united Penryn and Raffe for yet another battle. Raffe will do anything to claim his wings as his own again, discarding Beliel's, and Penryn wants nothing more than Paige happy. But mystery has always been present to those who are willing to follow its fragile beckons, and, soon, secrets long hidden are revealed on the trail of the wanderer.
1. Prologue

**This is a weird beginning, yes, but if you can make it through the first chapter, I promise you, it'll get better; I'm not a complete greenhorn at writing.**

**There'll be Raffryn and Raffryn fluff, but not without a plot line! If you like Raffryn fluff, check out one of my other one-shots.**

**EDIT: Yeah, this happens after Word After, and complies with nothing in End of Days. I'm continuing it regardless of the canon in that book. Enjoy, if you're willing to scrap all that.**

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**~Benevolence and Belligerence~**

**Prologue**

The massive Nephilim nimbly dances at the edges of the rooftops, just outside reach of Raphael's sword.

Its hooked claws grapple over the hay roof, fanged mouth repeatedly bared in a malicious snarl. Its eyes glow in the vivid evening sun. Long, dragonlike tail curling behind it like the slender tongue of a whip, the Nephilim bristles. How this _creature_, this demonic beast, had been spawned from Raphael's own warriors, he does not know. But he does know that the Nephilim must be slain before the sun sets, or else there will be no killing the beast in the darkness of the night.

In an act of desperation, Raphael snatches up a nearby torch from the hook on the wall. The splintered wood is brutal to his hand as he lifts the torch up to the hay thatching, almost as if it despises the concept of spreading onto the house. The flames are at first hesitant, as if they cannot fully comprehend their duty. But once they have a taste of their prey, they consume it quickly. The roof erupts into an inferno.

The Nephilim screeches first in confusion. He backs up nervously, balancing on the spine of the house, away from the strange fire, bewilderment gleaming in its wide eyes. The flames dance forward, and soon, he wails in pain instead of puzzlement. The Nephilim hisses at the fire, trying to curl smaller and smaller as the roof is claimed by the blaze.

The heat kisses Raphael's skin, the light burns his sensitive eyes. Raphael stumbles away from the roof as it is devoured by flames, throwing his arm before his face to shield him from the embers taking flight.

The stalks of hay groan and collapse around the weight of the Nephilim, allowing a thousand fire fairies to be swept into the dark night. The Nephilim releases a pitiful wail as it plummets through the burning ceiling, a wail that is soon belittled by the screams of humans as they desert the cottage neighboring the burning building.

Fire had leapt from one roof to the other, and it quickly devours the second home as easily as it had the first. Raphael pays the monkeys no heed, discarding his torch by tossing it over a shoulder.

With a wheezing breath that sounds above the crackling of the fire, a creature moves from within the remains of the burnt house, tossing wreckage from its path to freedom.

The Nephilim bats beams of wood from its path as it emerges from the primitive structure, flanks that were once dark black and covered in thick, tough skin now streaming with black blood and scaly with awful burns. Upon seeing Raphael, the beast's eyes widen with fear, singed hairs standing on end. It rears onto its hind legs as a last mean of defense, cordlike tongue lashing out like a whip to grasp Raphael's sword.

Raphael does not give it the time to encroach upon the sword. He swings without hesitation, throttling power into the blow. The Nephilim's screech is gurgled, hindered by its own blood. Its jaws snap together, a movement that only traps more of the thick liquid in the Nephilim's mouth. A stray tongue winds over the ground like a beheaded snake.

The Nephilim, caught in a rearing position, must eventually answer to gravity's call. When it does come crashing back down the burning timber, Raphael positions his sword and holds steady.

The sword pierces the Nephilim's hide. It shrieks in pain, going limp over the embers. Ashes spiral around the Nephilim's dying form, drifting up with the rising air.

Raphael stumbles away from the heat of the rapidly burning town. He watches grimly as the fire leaps from rooftop to rooftop, sending citizens fleeing. Panic ensues. A building collapses, ensnaring an elderly woman and her daughter inside. Hoarse and shrill screams greet one another in the darkness of the night.

A silhouette forms against the yellows and oranges of the village claimed by fire, a small one, and the only one that does not seem to flee from the tongues of flame. Sobbing with the strength of unmarred innocence, a tiny boy with dark brown hair approaches the remains of the still Nephilim. Bronze eyes reflect the firelight. His cheeks are streaked with glistening tears. A high-pitched cry of mourning escapes his lips. But as soon as the boy sees Raphael, barring the path to the smoldering Nephilim, he pales, and runs through the village.

Raphael snarls, the sound ripping through his chest. His grip tightens around the hilt of his sword. The boy disappears into shadows, but his tracks can be easily traced; a boy, no matter the species, is still a child. Baring his wings to the smoke, Raphael kicks off the burning timber in a swirling storm of ash. Wings fanning the sky, Raphael hovers over the burning town. Embers fly now with the grace of chaotic fairies. Ash clogs the sky, staining his white feathers grey.

Nothing unnatural moves in the town being devoured by orange flames; only monkeys flee the wreckage, tripping over their own feet in their demented hurry. Raphael growls in disappointment, hovering over burning chapel, disregarding the screams directed towards him. However, on the ridge of the neighboring mountain, a shadow quivers over the stones of the caves. It only quivers marginally, and only for mere seconds, but a shadow is all Raphael needs. Grim determination and bitter hatred fill his heart; these creatures are the beings that had thrust his Watchers into the Pit with not a tear wasted.

Raphael sails over the ridge, chasing after the last ribbon of sunlight cresting over the mountains' horizon. He lands before the open mouth of the cave with but a whisper of feathers, hands braced on his sword. His wings furl by his sides, readying him for the swift action of taking to flight immediately in case of attack from the desolate cave. Feet steady on the stone, Raffe takes a single step forward.

And the little boy steps from the shadows of the cave, his bronze eyes wide.

No higher than Raphael's knee, the boy lacks the build or height of a fearsome imp; no, the boy does not look any older than four. His tousled brown hair is tossed to one side. A brown cloak that seems to have once belonged to a full-size adult pools around his legs. The boy cranes his head up to look at Raphael. There is fear in his noble expression, _terror_, but there is also bravery, and an overwhelming sadness harbored in the boy's gaze.

He blinks twice. "Please, Mister Raphael, remember me, sir," the boy whispers. And then he bursts forward.

Raphael had expected the boy to sharply run to either the right or the left and had pivoted his body accordingly. When the small child does neither, instead bowling beneath his splayed legs and sprinting off, he is caught off balance, a balance that is not easily regained as more and more Nephilim pour from the cave.

There must be nearly twenty of them all. None are quite as large as the first Nephilim Raphael had left to die in the embers of the burning town, but none quite have the petite size of the Nephilim that had darted between Raphael's legs. That particular Nephilim morphs as it runs into the distance, headed for the distant trees, two legs becoming four as they drum against the soil. It leads the brigade, several paces ahead of the second in the train.

The last Nephilim to dash from the safety of the cave does not find the easy exit of its precessors. Raphael's blade sings in his hand, and the beast yelps in accordance with the sword's melody. Dragging the blade from its spot buried in the monster's flesh, Raphael chases after the Nephilim.

Blood roaring in his veins, Raphael inspects each and every Nephilim. Though there are near twenty total, not all twenty are running. One takes to the sky, unfurling a pair of greasy wings. Some of the leaner ones have one or two pups on their backs. One demonic baby shrieks from the shoulders of a smaller beast. A larger one carries a human female on its back.

If timed correctly, Raphael should be able to take two out with one blow if he keeps times his strikes right. First, though, Raphael leaps into the air and brutally stabs the winged Nephilim at the base of its neck. It shrieks and goes limp, neck bones loose. The death of the Nephilim sends a wave of triumph through his veins. The short shot of ecstasy is his sword's way of informing him that they'd slain something, and, after all this time, Raphael is accustomed to the quick jump of excitement in his veins. Tearing the blade from the twitching body, Raphael plods onward.

Nephilim after Nephilim falls, each spurt of black blood providing a new thrill for the game at hand. Some go down gracefully, bodies still mostly intact. However, some tumble in a wave of limbs and snarls. One Nephilim dashes onwards no matter the pain inflicted, forcing Raphael to stab it many more times than he deems necessary. When the beast does fall, it does so of blood loss. The sun creeps lower and lower in the sky, a small sliver all that remains. Soon, only two Nephilim remain, dashing ahead of Raphael with their scaly tails tucked. But the forest is near, as is the protective cover of night.

The wind is like an icy hand raking through his hair, through his feathers. His heart throbs excitedly in his veins, bloodlust narrowing his thought process. Exhilaration on high, Raphael takes revenge on the creatures that'd ripped the Watchers from their glory.

Raphael's lungs heave as he levels out with the Nephilim falling behind, sword light in his hands. The Nephilim's ears press against its skull. A tingle of satisfaction accompanies the yelp of pain and buckling of the Nephilim's knees. Its eyes roll back into its head, and it goes still.

Another snarl, a grisly growl of anger, attracts his attention. Raphael pauses, looming over the body of the dead Nephilim, gaze drawn to the source of the sound. The last Nephilim buries its claws in the ground, turning on a dime. It bares its teeth at Raphael. Rage glints in its bronze eyes. The tiny thing snarls, muscles tensing, and –

Raphael whacks its head mercilessly with the broad of his blade. The Nephilim's eyes roll close, and it falls lifelessly to the ground. The very last drop of orange sun squeezes over the horizon, allowing only a small flicker of light to reflect off the oozing liquid staining the Nephilim's temple.

Adrenaline high fading rapidly, Raphael studies the carnage he'd created: the trail of dead demon bodies, slowly morphing back into those of children, the plumes of smoke and tongues of fire whipping at the sky, the rivers of inky black blood tracing down the mountainside, and the wails of the humans watching their homes burn to the ground.

Leaving the tiny Nephilim's body in the dark of the night, Raphael takes to the sky.

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**It becomes important to the storyline eventually. Basically, it's my interpretation upon how Raffe took out a bunch of the Nephilim.**

**Bear with me. Please.**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

Paige doesn't seem to want to leave Beliel's husk of a body, for reasons beyond my comprehension.

Even now, beneath the heat of the noonday sky, she stands sentry over the carcass. His leathery skin now reeks sourly, and what little fluid had remained in the hollow hide has seeped away into the forest soil. The glassy eyes now rot beneath the sunlight, the stench undoubtedly attracting undesired predators to our makeshift camp.

Last night had been unrestful. Raffe had slept with his snowy wings lain beside him, slumbering a fair distance from Paige and I. However, I'd slumbered with my little sister nestled in the crook of my body, conserving heat against the bitter cold of the night. Our hilltop camp had even allowed for a small fire, summoned from the twigs and leaves littering the woods by Raffe. Even the fire couldn't chase off Paige's unease, however, and nor could it mine.

I watch Paige as she plucks at a few weeds from the ground at her feet, slender fingers sifting through the grass absentmindedly. The vivid purples and crimsons of her stitches are forever a reminder of how the angels had broken my little girl my little girl. At least they hadn't ripped th doelike lashes from her eyelids, or ripped her eyes out, for the matter.

The idea of having to live with her like this is slightly repulsing, though guilt heavies my heart to even think of such matters. I no longer fear my baby girl, no longer shy from her touch or slide my gaze away from hers, but I long for the child in the wheelchair I knew so well before. Now, everything will be different, strange, _alien_. My mind baulks at the possibility of her becoming hungry again; hopefully, Paige's stomach will remain satisfied for a while.

The emeralds and jades of the forests that Paige's scorpion army had delivered us to are slowly starting to ebb into golds and oranges. A masterpiece has been painted over the canopies of the forest, as if God had taken a paintbrush to the green and began highlighting all the crevices of the leaves. The blanket of foliage shed last autumn is soon to be refreshed by this new battalion, spiraling gracefully from the limbs of the trees. It will be the first fall of World After, and soon following will be the first winter.

Burdened by these thoughts, I sneak a glance at Raffe. He crouches with his back to me atop a boulder pockmarked with glossy moss, black wings partially splayed to the sky. We haven't spoken much since he first set me down; almost instantaneously, he'd refocused his attention on preening through every last feather of his reclaimed wings. The reverent intimacy he'd regarded them with had been heart-wrenching. My cheeks warm slightly and I look away, a memory of me crouching beside Raffe to briskly straighten a feather caught in disarray before rising and marching off reviving in my mind's eye. Just as I had been then, I'm not sure I want to know how he'd reacted to the act of generosity.

Shaking my mind free of its heavy focus of attention, I rise from my position by the dying fire, abandoning the dim glow of red embers and fluttery ash. The dull pain awakens in my limbs the moment I arise, like an old monster waking in my bones. The dust swirls around my feet as I go to sit beside Paige. Her eyes lift to meet mine, but, otherwise, she does not react.

My legs fold, sending my weight shifting uncomfortably. The rocks jab into the palms of my bruised hands, but I tenaciously lean against them, all the same. Paige blinks once, twice. Her gaze is still trained on me, a question in her eyes.

"Hey, baby, why are you sitting around Beliel's body?" I pluck a strand of mousy hair from her scarred face, tucking it behind an ear. "Why don't you want to move on?"

Paige watches me with sorrowful eyes. Her shoulders move in the slightest notion of a shrug; the stitches restrict her movement to the point where my Paige can't even shrug without pain.

I don't want to see what she'll be like on the long road ahead of us.

Despite the feral beauty of our surroundings, I'm actually pretty anxious to move on, away from this desolate place. The scorpions had taken us to a national or state park somewhere, judging by the wide expanse of trees and cruel wilderness encompassing our. It wouldn't be that bad of a place to camp out if I knew the first thing about hunting – mule deer thrive in these forests, the ones buried this deeply in once-protected lands seemingly unafraid of humans. But why should they be? We aren't kings of the food chain anymore. We're prey, too.

I can't hunt, however, and the flourishing population of the deer only seems to drive that home. Besides, there's something else here, something that I can't put my finger on… and it's unnerving. Like I'm being watched by eyes that know the world in a different way than I do. Like I've stepped into an elaborate trap lain before me. I've kept an eye out for any hellions, and I'm sure Raffe has, too, but my gut says they're not the culprit. Raffe's insistence to constantly scan the area from his boulder throne means I'm not the only one feeling it, either. Even Paige seems on edge, the way she hovers over Beliel's husk.

"Is it something he'd done to you?" My hand brushes her hair from her face. She shakes her head. "Is he… a food source?" My throat dries, but the words aren't choked or raspy – to show her that I find that new attribute revolting would be unwise, considering how hard she's trying to be normal. Thankfully, though, she shakes her head again.

Sick curiosity mounts with each question Paige nulls. "What is it, then?"

Paige's mouth creaks open, her bruised lips parting. A lively spirit dances in her eyes. The ghost of speech awakens on her tongue.

And yet, she never says a word.

Every muscle in my body goes rigid as Raffe leaps to his feet atop his proud boulder. The shadows of his wings mar the diamond sky. With a single bound, Raffe leaps from the stone, using his leathery wings to glide slightly on a current. He hits the ground running, wings tucking and hands forming blades. The intensity of his sprint jolts my bruised muscles into action. I rocket from the ground, pivoting around to see what had startled him.

My heart splutters in my veins and jaw drops open. A flare of panic sharpens my vision.

Raffe appears, his wings slamming out to their full length in a gesture of protection over both me and Paige. He bows into a low crouch, arms and feet wide to face any threat the beast poses. His posture is that of a tiger – lithe and agile, yet forged with power.

If Pooky Bear still responded to him and still answered to her rightful master, I'd be more than happy to let Raffe ward off the beast lounging beneath the trees. However, as it stands, Pooky Bear still only answers to me – even if she's ticked off by that fact herself.

Pooky Bear hisses as she slides from her scabbard, a sound like a reveling snake. I can almost feel her ecstasy, her eager tongue awaiting the taste of blood. Her blade glints in the sun, a fair warning to any who may pass. Paige huddles against my legs as I shuffle around her, placing my body between hers and the beast's. Raffe's wings hinder me shuffling forward and standing beside him, those scythes gleaming in the daylight like fishhooks.

"Raffe," I growl in a soft voice. "What is that?"

At first, Raffe doesn't utter a word; his gaze is glued to the beast stirring in the shadows. His taut muscles only tighten further, hands curling into fists. Paige, responding to the fear stagnant in the air, retreats a few steps worriedly, her eyes wide. Her sharp teeth gnash together, the sound chilling my bones. The metallic clicks only draw the eyes of the beast. Two ears swivel to focus on Paige.

"Get close to the fire," orders Raffe, his voice low and powerful.

I'm not sure what his plan is. An averagely sized predator could easily outrun me and Paige, never mind this beast, and Raffe can't carry us both. To respond to the flight instinct rattling erratically within my pulse would be suicide. I suppose, backed against a wall, I could fight it off – but killing an angel had not been easily done. Burnt and the others had left me with bruises mottling over my body in clouds of bitter purple, green, and yellow. Aches that can't facilely be ignored accompany the visible wounds.

My legs scream in protest as I grab Paige's arm, attempting to be mindful of her own bruises as I drag her to the fire. Though somewhat confused, she follows willingly, feet plodding heavily after me. She stumbles slightly, my grip the only factor keeping her propelled over the grassy hillside.

My abrupt halt at the circle of stones catches Paige off guard; her body crashes clumsily against mine, a few stitches hooking on my clothes. She yanks back instinctively, grimacing as those few stitches pop and ooze blood. Gently, I nudge her behind me, keeping one hand on her hair. Pooky Bear sings for death in my other hand, her blade adjusting to my angle.

Raffe is only half a step behind me, his wings still splayed protectively. I catch a single glimpse of his grim expression – Raffe seems to be just as unhappy with our situation as I am. A slight tremor runs through his demonic wings, quivering in the way porcupines show off their spikes to a larger predator. His fists ball and his back arches, feet sliding apart into their ready position. The sight of him preparing for a fight clenches my muscles, and excites Pooky Bear even more.

The beast snorts once. Dappling over its coat in aimless patterns, the light sways with a breeze that dances through the clearing. With the wind ruffling its pelt, the beast steps into the sunlight, each step measured and regal. It seems like a god emerging from its domain, a true guardian angel's first few steps into the light. The deep power of its gaze captures my attention, the rapturing shades of hypnotizing copper and red swirling together. The beast pauses a few strides from the forest shadows, pricking its ears. Even Raffe seems entranced by its mysterious gaze, his muscles softening.

The beast drops the stick in its mouth.

The moment is broken.

The beast whines like a dog and crouches before the stick, smile over its black lips and rear end in the air. A mischievous gleam glows in its reddish brown eyes.

Pooky Bear wavers in air slightly. Paige peeks from behind my leg, her cold hands against my thighs. Raffe freezes, his sculpted body pausing. My brow scrunches, my sweaty palms loosening their grip around Raffe's sword.

The beast tosses its head up in the air and releases a yowl, one that deepens into a playful growl. Pink tongue waggling, he nudges at the stick, then glances up at Raffe expectantly.

The beast looks like a wolf. It's massive, head larger than mine, but it doesn't seem particularly threatening. Ruddy brown fur resembling the color of cinnamon frames its body, sleek and scruffy, not thick and fluffy. Around his neck is a chest plate, layered with pieces of engraved gold and bronze metal. The chest plate links to a leather saddle positioned on its shoulders, with a girth tracing behind his front legs. His legs are perhaps the most peculiar aspect – all four of his forelegs are abnormally long, and slender. Though the rest of the beast's leg is elongated, the forelegs are particularly slim and disproportionate to the rest of his body. It would've reminded me of a horse's legs, if the limbs had not been tipped with lupine paws and canine in structure.

At the sight of the wolf, Paige scurries out from behind me. I catch her before she can squirm beneath Raffe's wings, hand closing sharply over her shoulder, but still, she seems reluctant to back away from the canine. The beast releasing another whimpering cry and shoving the stick slightly closer to Raffe doesn't help my plight any.

"It's a dog," I state blandly, casting a quizzical glance in Raffe's direction. "A dog with some sort of saddle. What are you? Afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf?"

Raffe's glare informs me that I'm insufferable, the daggers in his eyes worse than poison in his tone. "It could be a demon mount," he speculates darkly. "And besides, all humanity's culture is derived from the fear of the Big, Bad Wolf. You should be cowering."

Hostility rises in my heart to meet his bitterness on the field of battle. "Yeah, well," I point out, "we depicted angels as innocent cherubs, so obviously, something's wrong with the textbooks."

Cocking his head to look me in the eye, Raffe scowls. "You mean you _can't_ picture me as a chubby winged baby? Why the hell not?"

"You wouldn't be chubby." My mind's eye shies from the thought of mini Raffe in a diaper. "You'd be… narrow."

He shoots another abasing glance at me. "Your fantasies are quite flattering; muscled from infancy does seem to be in my character, doesn't it?"

"I said narrow because 'sickly' and 'scrawny' are cruel," I chastise. "Your head can carry you even higher than your wings."

"Anything's better than being grounded here with that attitude," he mutters darkly beneath his breath. The rest is a discord of mumbles, drowned out by yet another howl of the Big, Bad Wolf.

"I'm going to throw that stick." Pooky Bear's complaints are vulgar, but I sheath her all the same. With one finger, I poke the leathery skin along his demonic wings. "Move, please."

Raffe's eyes blaze again. His head cocks to mine permanently, and his jaw clenches. "That is quite possibly the worst idea you've had since I've known you. Penryn, that's saying something."

"I don't know." Best keep him talking, whilst hatching a plan to evade the tarplike wings pinning me against the fire pit. "Sticking around to help you fight Beliel around the scorpions was pretty awful."

My viselike grip on Paige's shoulder loosens. Her eyes dart up to mine briefly, a portrait of understanding painting her stitched face.

"Yes." Raffe shakes his head distractedly, eyes distant. "That most definitely takes the cake for worst idea. Ever. In the history of the Young family."

My grip on Paige's shoulder releases.

She darts beneath the row of scythes, before Raffe truly comprehends the situation. Some part of me resents that I've released my little sister to greet a two-ton wolf, but I know that she's taken down greater foes than that mutt.

Raffe growls, his eyes widening in surprise. His head swings around to watch my little sister, and the wings blocking me from approaching the creature falter. I shove against the barriers, shouldering my way around Raffe to get nearer to both my sister and the beast. Raffe's guttural groan of frustration is amplified.

However, contrary to my intentions, once I've hustled my way around Raffe, I don't draw that much closer to my sister – instead, I watch from a distance, eyes round with awe. Paige has her gaze locked on the wolf's; she's gradually crouching down, fingers roaming the grass to select the stick. When her tiny fingers close around the coarse bark, she hefts it high above her head. The wolf's eyes become as large and reflective as a pond, his jaw dropping open to reveal rows of teeth glistening with drool, drool that beads over his tongue and slavers from the corners of his mouth.

Paige lifts the stick high, waving it about, her expression stern.

The wolf whines, and collapses into a sitting position.

Paige's expression hardens further, cold as marble.

With an impatient whimper, the beast sinks to the ground, his belly scraping the floor and his plush tail thrashing violently from side to side.

Paige's hand swishes back the twig, and flicks it in the standard throwing procedure. The churning flight of the stick is turbulent and sloppy. My heart tugs as it sails not even ten feet to her left before hitting the ground with a dejected thud.

The wolf rises all the same with a yelp of joy, scurrying after the bone. He snaps it up playfully, the crack of its teeth on wood jolting my heart-rate only slightly. Convulsing as he shakes the stick around to "kill" it, the beast prances forward proudly. Despite the weak throw, he drops it before Paige again, and sits obediently.

Paige had visibly deflated, seeing the distance her toss had gone. My baby girl's never been that strong an athlete, even with full use of her legs. But now, with stitches devouring her flesh, she can barely walk without her eyes watering with tears. Throwing a stick must've been immensely painful for her. And yet, instead of ignoring Paige and dismissing her as an awful thrower, the beast crouches before her again, faith bright in its red eyes.

Paige's lips pinch slightly, her version of a broad grin. The closest thing to delight I've seen in a long time shines in my baby girl's eyes. A smile spreads across my face as she stiffly bends down to pick the stick up, flicking it over her head again. It goes an even shorter distance, but still, the wolf enthusiastically picks it up and totes it back to Paige, lying down before her and waiting for my baby girl to throw it for him again.

I glance triumphantly over my shoulder at Raffe. "See? No demon mount to be found!"

His expression is sour with disbelief. "You let the sister you risked the aerie for approach this mutt without a whim on how it may react."

My brow cocks. "She took out Beliel, something even you can't manage. She befriended the giant wolf, something you didn't have the guts to."

"A giant wolf friend isn't exactly wise," sighs Raffe wearily. "Stealth missions will be impossible if it ends up following us."

"Who says we're going on stealth missions?" I challenge, eyes narrowing.

"To find a new physician, we will be." Raffe crosses his arms over his chest, lip curled in an argumentative gesture.

My throat goes dry, as if it's been lined with sandpaper. Gaze deserting Raffe and instead scraping the horizon, I mutter, "Who says _Paige and I_ are going on stealth missions?"

Raffe blinks in disbelief, his arms falling back to his sides. The words leaving my mouth seem surreal to even I – the thought of breaking ties with Raffe is simply impossible to conjure. But my sister comes first to me, even above the Wrath of God's precious wings. I don't want to leave Raffe – having someone to watch my back has been almost magical, and even the thought of being without him makes me feel barren. But I will do what I have to in order to keep Paige safe. Safe as she can be, at least.

To avoid the blatant incomprehension in Raffe's eyes, I turn back to the wolf. He drops the stick before Paige once more, tongue lapping once up its rough length in an affectionate gesture. Inching forward, I lift a hand to the wolf. Paige snatches up the stick and backs away slightly, allowing the wolf and I to enjoy a bonding moment.

At first, the wolf follows Paige for a few strides, ears perked towards her and mouth grinning expectantly. Still, she backs away, shaking her head marginally. Refused by his friend, the wolf turns to meet me, jaw shutting and eyes glinting with childish curiosity. He tilts his head as I approach, black nostrils flaring.

The wolf does not falter. His gaze does not quaver from mine. Raw power circulates in the spheres of reddish copper, the layered slices of bronze and crimson and gold. His cinnamon fur ruffles in the sunlight as he sends a shudder through his pelt. A gruff woof resonates from somewhere deep within the wolf's throat.

After another moment of hesitation, it sniffs at my extended palm. The wolf's breath is like the dancing feet of a fairy over my skin, tender and delicate as winter's first crisp breath. He grunts and shakes out his mane, releasing a low howl of approval.

Dad had kept a German Shepherd around before Paige was injured. The dog became too much of a hassle to care for, though, when my little girl had her accident, so he'd been forced to sell the dog. The memories of caring for that huge pup still reside somewhere deep in the reservoirs of my childhood memories; I'd loved that dog with all of my innocuous heart. Rex, I think his name was.

Slowly, I lace an open-palmed hand through the silky fur on the wolf's cheek. After a moment of brief hesitation, it presses its head against my hand, eyes gleaming excitedly. It woofs, shaking out its mane again in a gesture I don't fully understand. I allow my hands to roam gingerly down its neck, massaging through the wolf's thick, coarse fur, until I reach the chest strap.

I suppose that this wolf could be a mount of some successful human or a bizarre breed of angels. The worn appearance marring the saddle leather proves that we are not the only beings the wolf has associated with. My question is merely what happened to the previous owners.

The warmth of the wolf's wiry fur is a sharp contrast to the bitter cold of the gold and bronze of the nameplate over the chest strap. My fingers wrap around the leather, gently pushing it up. I crane my neck down slightly, curious to read what name may have been engraved onto the surface for the regal being. Brow scrunching, I read aloud.

"Scruffy Mutt. Call me Scruffy." I tilt my head to one side to avoid bumping my forehead against Scruffy's chin. He proceeds to nuzzle my hair inquisitively as I read the smaller text, warm breath rifling over my scalp.

"If you're reading this, Scruffy is probably just out on one of his wanders. He'll return eventually, probably. Just throw something really far in the distance, so far he won't find it, and he'll be on his merry way. If you think he's _actually_ lost, well, just search for a crowd of screeching fangirls, and you'll find me. Shouldn't be that difficult. XOXO, Hugo."

"Marvelous," grumbles Raffe, burying his head in one hand. "We've now got a side quest to go find 'Hugo,' the fangirl king."

* * *

**I know my characterization may be a bit off – I haven't actually written that much for this fandom. If you have any polite pointers, CC is welcome! **

**So, here's how it's going to work! I only post every so often (I do have a very small social life, astonishing, I know), and although I try to make it frequent, I value quality above quantity of updates. If I ever rush something, you'll be able to tell. The first drafts are always crap. **

**There will be Raffryn, I swear to it – but not _pointless_ Raffryn. They're my SUPER ship and all, but if, in every chapter, I had a new and exciting moment with them, it would wreck any storyline I may create. Raffryn will emerge when due, and I'll write it romantically in some areas and sexually tense in others, I promise. ;)**

**One thing I like from readers are reviews - seriously, if you want to send me a review about how your day sucked, I'll read it and respond to it. You guys float my boat. You're my boaty-floaties. I like figuring out your characters through reviews.**

**Alright, so, every chapter, usually, I have a poll. I'll do the same with this one, because it helps me gather a lot more feedback! Even one-line answers are appreciated! (Ahem, *cough* ghost-readers *cough*)**

**POLL: Did I capture the banter okay in this chapter? I feel it could be improved; I've never been that good at dialogue.**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

"What should we do about Scruffy?" My voice is a subtle whisper, ushered solely for the sensitive ears of Raffe. My eyes trail the frolicking wolf's path as he prances around Paige, kicking like a feisty young stallion.

Raffe's spine uncoils, vertebrae after vertebrae visible through his shirt. His head swivels, eyes clashing against mine. The tense bitterness is evident in the twisted sneer he wears. Eyes narrowing, he questions darkly, "Why? I thought he was part of the crew now."

I stare at him blankly. "I never said I wanted him along, and you've made it pretty clear that you don't. He's entertaining Paige, and I'm grateful for that, don't get me wrong, but he'll be hard to travel with."

Raffe cranes his head back to the sky, holding two hands up in a gesture of wonder. Mocking colors his venomous tone. "Is that not what I said earlier? Is that not _exactly_ what I said earlier?"

Anger stirs in the pit of my stomach, irritation prickling over the palms of my hands. I glower at Raffe. "What is with you? You've been acting stingy ever since we've arrived."

Navy blue fire flares to life violently in Raffe's eyes. Agitation twists his mouth further, and his wings unfurl slightly. Every muscle in his body glows with discontent. "I want to leave the ground, Penryn," he snarls bitterly, raking a hand through his hair. "I want to stop all this damned hiding like a pathetic monkey. What I need is to be in the air, what I need are my wings, what I need is my sword, Penryn. I need to confront Uriel as soon as damn possible, and leave this wretched ground."

I stiffen. It's as though he's slapped me. "I wasn't aware that you felt that way. I'll go figure Scruffy out by myself, and you can sit here and mope."

"I do not mope!" Raffe's voice is sharp with rebuttal.

I don't waste the energy of responding, only marching further from him. Do not count me as a fool, I'd never even dreamed that Raffe would want to stay on the ground – but his words bite like a serrated blade, and his bitterness gnaws corrosively upon my respective image of the archangel.

A hand closes around my forearm, jolting me away from my stride. The hand holds firm despite my attempts to dislodge Raffe's grip, yanking me back towards him until I stare into Raffe's eyes. His gaze is intense.

"I didn't mean that," he husks, a weary sigh laced through his words. Raffe's gaze drops to the ground before meeting my eyes again. "I lust for my wings and other precious things that aren't rightfully mine to treasure. That's taken its toll."

Like a beast stirring beneath turbulent ocean waters, I sense a double-meaning in his words – but I can't pick up on it, not in the moment. Certainty is present – certainty that his sentences will return to me, certainty that the twisted phrases will unwind, certainty that they will haunt me late into the star-dappled night. My eyes rest upon the imploring gaze of Raffe for a few seconds more.

Yanking my arm from his grip, I grumble, "Any ideas for Scruffy, then, big guy?"

Raffe relaxes, straightening again, his intense stare returning to its regal indifference. The archangel seems a tad less stressed than he'd appeared to be earlier. "Well, the tag says to throw that stick as far as we can," points out Raffe, melodic voice a balm to my still prickling nerves. "We should be able to simply toss the wolf away."

"Are you sure?" I hedge. I'm not that much better at throwing than my lame sister. "I mean, it's coming from Hugo, king of fangirls. Doesn't seem like a reliable source."

Raffe's sigh is melodramatic. "Throw the stick, Penryn. If it doesn't work, we'll go from there."

Reluctantly, I glare at him, and then approach the wolf.

Currently, Scruffy and Paige are caught in a brutal battle of tug of war – it seems like the wolf's only half-trying, his fangs the only things gripping the slender stick. Paige tugs on it with all her might. Before, she'd popped a few stitches throwing the stick to him, so the two had found a compromise in playing less trying games.

At my approach, Scruffy's coppery red eyes roll up to meet mine. His tail thrashes a little more wildly than it had before, thumping against the ground repeatedly. A long thread of drool traces between his fangs, swaying above one of his paws.

"Scruffy," I coo, patting my thighs in invitation. "C'mhere, Scruffy! Here, boy! Scruffy!"

He drops the stick in my sister's lap, rising from the ground and pricking his ears. With a lively step, Scruffy pads over, eyes bright. The _whuff, whuff, whuff_ of his nose travelling up my arm and into my hair tickles. Apparently, the scent of something very interesting has found it's way to my hair because he doesn't stop smelling my head for a while, no matter how times I pat his neck. Glancing at Paige, I gesture her over.

The taut smile tugging at Paige's stitches fails with one glance in my direction. Her hand weakly holding the stick in the air pitches. Face crumpling, Paige trudges her way to my side, eyes downcast. Without removing my hand from Scruffy's neck, I take the stick from her, prying her little fingers off the wood.

Raffe's eyes are lasers trained acutely on my back as I lift the stick above my head. Scruffy's pupils nearly swallow his irises. Saliva cascades through his fangs, and the wolf collapses to the ground. His face is painfully alert, ears twitching towards the stick and eyes following its every move.

Attempting to throttle as much strength as possible into my arm, I chuck the stick.

Raffe's boisterous laugh is like a cacophony of thunderclaps behind me as it sails just barely over the trees, clipping more than one limb.

He cuts off abruptly when it disappears amongst the trees and someone cries out in pain.

Scruffy growls menacingly and takes off through the woods. His strides cleave through the underbrush like a dagger, leaving a precise path in his wake. Paige cocks her head, the beginning of a snarl sending trembles through her bruised body. My hand flies to Pooky Bear's hilt, half-unsheathing the glinting blade. Raffe rises from his leisurely slouch, wings unfurling like two leather-bound scrolls.

A tense silence follows the disappearance of Scruffy, as fragile as a pane of glass and as silent as a night when the wolves forget to howl. My breath is stolen by the quiet of the second. The sun beating overhead seems to glimmer, its golden rays flickering hypnotically in the air, with just the hint of bronze riding the light's wings.

"Good going, Penryn." Raffe's voice is quiet. "If I'm right – and I usually am – you've just hit an old man upside the head with that brilliant throw of yours."

Worry sings in my heart, terror preying pitilessly with my anxiety. "What do you mean? There's an old man creeping around?"

"Hobbling, actually." He nods, almost to himself. "He's been hobbling around on the outskirts of my hearing. But his breathing is labored and his footsteps are obnoxiously loud – he's nothing I wouldn't be able to take care of if he stumbled too close."

Something slams into me like a ton of bricks. Guilt plucks my heartstrings like a musician at a harp. "You're telling me that I've just hit an old man?" My speech catches. "An old human man hobbling through the forest?"

"There's no saying he's not hostile, Penryn," lectures Raffe. "It'd be unwise to –"

A strangled bay sounds from through the trees. Scruffy sounds like he's desperate, calling for us.

"If he's hostile, you'll take care of him," I conclude. "If not, I'll go apologize."

Raffe's sigh is saturated with disapproval. "Penryn–"

I shove Pooky Bear back into her scabbard, glancing only once over my shoulder before I plunge into the shadows of the forest. "Just because I live in hell doesn't mean I have to act like a savage."

Once emerged in the woods, a primal instinct nestled deep within cowers. The bloodcurdling sensation of being watched is only amplified amongst these trees, the ones that have watched the centuries tick by. Each shadow quivers with the slightest wind. My skin prickles, hairs standing on end. Despite my noble claim about rejecting savagery, a primitive kernel of ancestral terror is awakened by the sway of the leaves in the breeze.

Though the sound his footsteps make over the crackling blanket of leaves is somewhat softer than mine, I can hear Raffe begrudgingly tailing after me – I do not need to see his face to know that is has been chiseled from disapproval.

Paige, however, is a ghost through the trees. Her animalistic lope beside me makes not a sound, leaving not a leaf out of place in her path. Her shadow is the only notion of her having passed at all. With one hand, I wave her back to the clearing. To my surprise, she obeys.

Over the small dent in the hills, a little ravine cutting apart a mountain, we find Scruffy, and a man crumpled on the ground beside him.

Scruffy enthusiastically bathes the man's faces in licks, burying the man's muffled complaints beneath his fleshy tongue.

As I study the pair of them, Raffe's breath tickles the back of my neck. I start in surprise, my body slamming against his. One hand steadies me, landing at my shoulder, but he seems more annoyed than generous.

The man shoves Scruffy's nose away with a thundering chuckle, the kind of laugh forged in the deepest pit of the chest. Rocking unsteadily, he clambers to his feet, hooking two fingers through Scruffy's saddle to heft himself off the ground. Leaves spiral from his clothing. Smiling broadly from ear to ear, the man waves at me, but he does not utter a word.

He's not a heavyset man, not in any terms, but he's not scrawny like many of the people wandering the streets today; no, any largeness is contributed to veined muscle. Not much of his skin is showing, but what is bared is deeply tanned.

A roughly handled off-white shirt sheathes his torso, frayed cuffs at the wrists. Each pocket of his cargo pants is filled with various items like multiple pocket watches, spare gears, and rusted wrenches, all of them giving him an aura like he belongs in a different century. A threadbare apron covers most of his clothing – it's so discolored and filthy with oil and grease I can't really tell what color it used to be. Adorning his head is a pair of mechanic's glasses that look like they'd been pickpocketed from a World Before cosplay.

That's what this man looks like. A steampunk mechanic.

He lifts a massive hand, revealing that the fingers are short and the pads of his palms are heavily calloused, the flesh seemingly shielded beneath layers of skin.

"Uh, hi," I greet. He beams at me, encouraging me to go on with a swooping gesture of one hand. "Did I hit you with the stick?"

His swollen cheeks blush scarlet. With one hand, he taps his forehead – already, a small lump is bloating beneath the surface of his wrinkled skin.

The man's face is far from beautiful. His smile is broad and his lips are thick. Grey eyebrows creep over his face like caterpillars. His forehead is large, large and long. Though they glitter like miniature stars, his brown eyes sit on his cheeks. His nose is round and too bulky for his face. Only a few scraggly grey hairs keep him from being labeled as bald, and they stick out every which way, much resembling Albert Einstein's famous haircut. A thick, bushy beard is tucked beneath his greasy apron.

"Sorry," I apologize, trying and failing not to stare at his bizarre appearance. "I was just trying to throw a stick to Scruffy." I jerk a thumb to the wolf, who'd promptly sat at his name. "You know Scruffy?"

The man beams at me, nodding so hard his head could go flying off. Chuckling, he pats Scruffy twice on the neck, before pointing out the stick. Stooping low, he scoops up Scruffy's stick with one massive hand. He lifts it high above his head, raising it like a sword.

Scruffy is trying to recreate Niagara Falls with the amount of drool oozing from his lips. Eyes wider than tennis balls, he squirms anxiously, whimpering pathetically. With a casual flick of the man's wrist, the stick flies through the woods, Scruffy hot on its heels.

"You would be Hugo?" guesses Raffe, his tone lazily arrogant. Raffe leans against a tree at the crown of the ridge, shadowed by the leaves.

This time, the man shakes his head remorsefully.

My eyes are wide with fascination. "Can you speak?" Cautiously, I inch down the little hill, the slick leaves proving to be treacherous.

The perky eyebrows reigning above his eyes sink. The man shakes his head again.

"You're mute?" I verify, watching his lips.

The man looks away bashfully, nodding again.

Glancing once back at Raffe, I slide down the hill a little more. I hit the pit of their ravine with a thump. Raffe, on the other hand, scowls from atop the ridge, watching me go with a tart bitterness buried in his eyes.

"Is there any way you can tell us what your name is if it's not Hugo?" I question politely. If I get any closer to him, I'd appear threatening to an old man walking alone in the woods, so at a ten foot distance is good for both me and him.

The man's shy nature evaporates as Scruffy returns, panting. First, the man kicks out a clear patch of leaves, ignoring Scruffy's whimpered pleas. The wolf practically shoves his stick in the man's face as he tries to clear the leaves. He wrestles the stick from Scruffy's mouth, shoving a fist between the wolf's fangs. With a playful growl, Scruffy releases the stick. Instead of throwing it, though, the man leans down and carves something into the unearthed soil with the tip of the stick.

I cast a glance back to Raffe's discontented figure. He glares at me in response.

Eventually, the man rises from his hunched position. He lifts the stick over his head, waits for Scruffy to sit, and then chucks the stick again. Scruffy races off, kicking up leaves behind him. Spreading his hands wide in welcome, the man backs away, steps crunching over the fallen foliage. He leaves a fair amount of distance between him and the wet dirt he'd drawn in.

My hand rests on Pooky Bear's hilt as a formality more than anything; if the man should pounce, Raffe will be on him before I get Pooky from her scabbard. The leaves hinder each step I take, their hisses of displeasure echoing obnoxiously through the woods. Once I reach the bare spot, I crouch down slightly, squinting.

"Og – Ogden. Is Ogden right?" I look up at him questioningly.

Ogden smiles, shooting me a double thumbs-up.

"What are you doing out here, _Ogden_?" inquires Raffe sharply, his voice like a razor. "All alone, in the middle of the forest?"

Ogden's eyes widen at the sight of Raffe, his stance faltering. It's as though, before, he'd never taken into account the demonic wings framing Raffe's broad shoulders and cutting blue eyes. Raw terror consumes his face for a second. But before I can fully comprehend his change in moods, Ogden seems to switch from horror to the adept curiosity of a puzzled scientist.

Turning to me with a question in his eyes, Ogden jerks a thumb towards Raffe, cocking an eyebrow quizzically.

"Answer the question." Raffe's voice is as hard and cold as a slab of marble, unamused by Ogden.

Ogden raises his hands in mock surrender, bowing his head. He proceeds to scratch his bearded chin, staring up to the sky with exaggerated acting. Then, brandishing one finger high, he grins.

Ogden makes the signature two-legs out of his index and middle finger with one hand and has them walk across the palm of another. It's like a game of charades, which, even in the World Before, I sucked at.

"You were walking," I guess stupidly.

Ogden raises a hand in the fifty-fifty signal, pursing his lips leniently.

"Were you walking somewhere, or merely wandering?" asks Raffe coldly.

At the last word of Raffe's question, Ogden beams and shoots a thumbs-up. He seems proud to have gotten his point across, childish grin too young for his weathered features.

"Ogden, do you know where Hugo is?" I wonder. "Or where you are in this forest? Can you navigate?"

To each question, Ogden nods a hearty yes.

My stomach releases a particularly ferocious growl, hunger wailing like a demented dolphin. I blush self-consciously, as if the etiquette rules of the World Before matter around Ogden. "Sorry," I apologize hurriedly, clapping a hand on my grumbling stomach as both Raffe and Ogden turn to me. "I haven't had much to eat in a while."

Ogden's bushy eyebrows pinch together sympathetically. A friendly smile pulls at his lips, and, with one hand, he circles over his own belly. Then, he lifts both hands in unison to create an upside-down V.

"Camp," I guess. Hope flurries like a trapped bird in my heart, my pulse spluttering. "You have food at your camp?"

Scruffy pads up while Ogden nods. He pulls the stick from Scruffy's mouth, and turns his back to me. Glancing back encouragingly, he waves me to follow him as he hobbles off with mismatched strides, Scruffy padding steadfastly by his side. An air of nostalgic mystery seems to depart with them.

"Penryn!" snaps Raffe crossly the moment my first footfall hits the leaves.

"What harm can he do us?" I call over my shoulder. "He's terrified of you!"

"And if he leads us into a trap?" The radical edge in Raffe's voice is dripping with disapproval. "What then?"

"That's why we'll leave Paige and your wings here. If things turn out bad, you can scoop me into the sky. We'll grab everything and go." Smug with my plan, I grin over my shoulder at him.

"What if I refuse to follow you?" challenges Raffe rebelliously. "Your back-up plan would be nullified."

"I'll either have a nice, tasty dinner with my sister or I'll be sitting alone in a coffin," I speculate. "I never said you had to come. I suppose I could always run back if things are nasty. And besides, you have all the makings of a brilliant babysitter."

Raffe sighs hollowly. "You'd better catch up to Ogden before you lose him. I'll secure my wings and lecture your sister, and then I'll be on your tail."

* * *

**New character! Yay! Still no Hugo. Hmm. **

**If you see any spelling or grammatical errors, let me know!**

**POLL: Do you think that Ogden is legitimate or that he's leading Penryn to a trap?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

"Would it be rude of me to ask why you're mute?" My voice is tentative in the overall quiet, disturbing the rustle of our feet over the blanketing leaves. Ogden seems surprised, his dark eyes widening, but he swiftly rocks his head from side to side.

His swollen cheeks redden. Ogden tilts his head to me, and, bashfully, opens his mouth.

Inside of Ogden's red maw sits no tongue – at least, not much of one. A pink lump lingers near the back of his throat, distorted and riddled with uneven lumps. It's not a natural malformation, but rather one seemingly severed by a sharp blade. Before I can study it intensely, Ogden shuts his mouth again, ruddy cheeks vivid.

"How did that happen?" I wonder, eyes wide with the sympathy gnawing at my heart. I know of religions that require snipping off the tip of the tongue, but I've never heard of nor seen such cruel torture as afflicted to Ogden. Besides, the childish old man hardly seems the type to commit to an extremist group.

Ogden does not respond, gaze glued the rise and fall of his boots.

"Sorry," I apologize after seconds of silence. "That was prying, wasn't it?"

"You might as well become used to it," calls Raffe from behind me. "Penryn pries much more than anyone I know."

My glare needled with daggers clashes against his arrogant façade.

Ogden glances over his shoulder, then back at me. A single hand shuffles through each of his pockets, the clinking of metal accompanying each dive into his cargo pants. Scruffy seems alert, ears swiveled towards Ogden, as if hidden somewhere amongst the gears, there are treats for the giant wolf. From the pits of a pocket in his apron, Ogden pulls a frayed notebook clipped with a small pen across the rings.

Uncapping the pen, he writes onto the notebook.

Raffe and I exchange a glance. He's as grim and suspicious as ever.

Once he's finished, Ogden pushes the notebook into my hand. There's only one thing written on the page with uneven handwriting and temperamental ink.

_Would it be rude of me to ask why Arch Raphael is neither angel nor demon?_

I, myself, would like the details to that question. I fall back a step, my stride greeting Raffe's. Tilting the pad so he can read it easier, I hold it out to him. The mild curiosity on his face is rapidly succeeded by first alarm, then suspicion, and finally a calm, cool mask of regal indifference.

"That would be rude, yes," decrees Raffe disapprovingly, "but I suppose I can't leave you empty-handed. Spread your rumors if you will, but I haven't Fallen – just… taken some things that don't belong to me. I plan on giving them back."

Ogden frowns, as if he knows that Raffe's summary of events is massively inaccurate, but he shrugs and plods onwards. Although he seems curious, the old man knows when not to pry.

Glancing once more at Raffe, I join Ogden again, handing him back the notebook. Smiling gratefully, Ogden stuffs it into a random pocket again, slipping the ballpoint pen into another. Then, I fall back once more. Raffe watches me as I regain my placement by his side from the corners of his eyes, but he doesn't breathe a word of sarcasm.

Our surroundings cannot be described as anything but beautiful – not the beautiful as in the first breath of a newborn child or the beautiful as in the sultry red lips of a curved woman, but the feral, untamed majesty that only wild places such as this forest can survive. Jutting through the woods are giant boulders that reach to the sky with stone fingers, and sloping cliffs slick with leaves. We pass more than one roaring creek riddled with waterfalls and salamanders darting through the crystalline waters. Everywhere we go, an eagle's call seems to mock our every step, echoing through the canopy like a declaration of wild beauty.

The very same beauty has made the trail treacherous; at times, I've slipped or lost my balance, the unsteady stones among the stable easily fooling me. Once, I'd stepped in a bitter cold creek, allowing my left foot to freeze to death. Raffe was caught by surprise when he walked into an overhanging branch, the crack of his forehead against bark a mighty one, but otherwise he seems at home with the forest.

Despite his crippled legs, Ogden's stride is powerful, storming ahead of us. The old man reminds me slightly of an ox – he's not exactly the prettiest thing in the world, but strong and tough enough to get the job done. His frame is the one of the aged bodybuilder. Once, in his exuberant prime, Ogden was probably a grunt worker or an athlete. The way he walks without a staff of any type illustrates that he's confident and at ease with his aging as well – Ogden has not stumbled once, despite that loping hobble he has.

Scruffy is confident on the trail, as well. More than once, he's shied from a bird suddenly taking flight or a lizard darting across the leaves, but not once has he quavered from the path Ogden takes. Loyalty glitters as acutely as the copper in his eyes. Seeing the wolf's bobbing trot causes a question to refocus.

"Is Scruffy some type of harmless demon?" I wonder, prepared to discern more of Ogden's body language.

"No," answers Raffe for me. His gaze is trained on the wolf as well. "Demons are never harmless. They're treacherous and foul, and any appearances they may have that lean towards innocence are masks to hide the wickedness inside. For that reason, this pathetic creature is not a demon."

Ogden's head tilts back, as if he's listening in on our conversation.

"But what if Scruffy's wearing one of those masks?" I challenge. "What then?"

"A demon speaks in riddle and rhyme, which Scruffy does not do. A demon burns beneath sunlight, which Scruffy does not do. A demon's growl instills fear in the hearts of Men. Or Daughters of Men. Your sister pranced right up to Scruffy after hearing him growl at his stick."

"Right, so, not a demon. What is he, then?"

Raffe frowns, pondering. "That, I'm not sure. Maybe a human scientist's biological experiment. Maybe a monster – on occasion, there is just a random creature spawned not from Hell but from Earth. Scruffy is a mystery to me."

"Oh. Okay." I don't feel that there's anything more to add to the conversation.

Ogden shrugs and mimes scratching his head when my eyes clap against his.

Another silent moment passes.

"So, he's more like a friendly, fluffy monster, then?"

Raffe sighs. "Why? Are you going to rename _him_ Pooky Bear, too?"

It's pleasant to have Raffe back to his normal, teasing self. That other side of him, frustrated and angry, had been difficult to both communicate with and tolerate. Inspired by the turn of our conversation, I smirk.

"Oh, no, only Pooky Bear likes glittery skirts. Which reminds me." I unsheathe Pooky Bear and smile at her teasingly. "What do you want this time, Pooky Bear? Tutus are so mainstream… maybe next time, I'll get you a tiara! Or Cinderella's glass slippers! We've got to trash the Teddy Bear image; it's just not working for me, you know? How about a unicorn? Or a pegasus? Or maybe a unicorn pegasus!" My gasp is overacted. "I know! I'll get you wings, so you and Raffe will match! What do you think we should go for: Tinkerbell or Cupid?"

Anger flares from the blade. Raffe's glower is as scalding as hellfire.

"Right," I answer for Pooky Bear, nodding in grave agreement. "_Always_ go with Tinkerbell."

"You know," threatens Raffe solemnly, "someday, she's just going to leap from that scabbard and saw your head off, and there'll be nothing I'll be able to do about it."

I bat my eyelashes at him, not completely hiding the sneer curling my lips. "I don't know what I'd do without my Knight in Feathered Armor. Thank goodness you're here, Princy Pie!"

Ogden observes the banter thoughtfully, glancing over his shoulder with an odd scrunched look dominating his misshapen face.

"If we were in a fairytale," Raffe estimates, "you'd definitely be the Evil Queen. No doubt about it."

"But Disney villains get the _best_ songs!" I exclaim enthusiastically, twirling Pooky Bear in my hand. "I'd have a dark solo rivalling the likes of Scar's song!"

Raffe snorts rudely. "The day you sing something that even comes close to Scar's song is the day I eat a shoe."

"That should be my magical talent!" My grin broadens. "My voice is so awful that anyone who hears it has the irrational urge to eat a shoe! Call me" – I strike a fighter's pose with Pooky Bear in hand – "the Shoe Siren."

Ogden's reverberating chuckles thunder through his chest like an old drum. Scruffy licks up the side of Ogden's face at the noise experimentally.

"You are one-hundred percent crazy," Raffe scolds. "Absolutely insane."

"That's why I'm the villain, right, Knight in Feathered Armor?"

For the first time, Raffe cracks the slightest smile. It's just a mere smirk toying with the tips of his lips, but it's a smile all the same. His expression is so devilishly handsome, Satan himself would faint with envy.

"I wouldn't consider me any type of protagonist, either," he argues. "No, I'm much more skilled at the unfriendly wanderer image. Viewers like mysterious and sexy. Bad boys will always be a thousand times more interesting than the perfect man."

"I'm surprised you know so much about children's movies." I cock an eyebrow at him, watching Raffe through my lashes. "But a villainess doesn't need an emotionally unstable partner, either. Bad boys go better with good girls."

Raffe chuckles. "Not in all cases."

"True," I admit. "There was Robin Hood and Maid Marion. They were both good guys, or idolized like that. But Maid Marion died. So, as a female, I don't particularly like that partnership."

"It depends on the version," Raffe points out. "In Disney, which seems to be our theme, they lived happily ever after."

"Yeah, well." I shrug. "I never actually watched Disney's take on Robin Hood, just BBC's. And after Maid Marion died, Robin Hood's life kind of sucked, like the rest of the series."

"Once your eyes are adjusted to a glorious light, it's difficult to learn to see the world in any other way." Raffe's slight smile fades. "I can't say anything about the rest of the series, but you can't blame Robin for any failure."

Ogden's eyes sparkle with curiosity. Walking backwards, he jabs a thumb at his chest and tilts his head to one side.

"…What would you be?" I interpret, glancing him over. "That's what you're asking?

Ogden nods, head bobbing. His dark eyes sparkle, hands rubbing together eagerly.

Raffe frowns. "Maybe the old wise man," he guesses. "Like Merlin, or something."

"No…" My eyebrows pinch together. "He's far too playful for that. He reminds me a bit of the blind dude from 'Quest for Camelot,' except a little more spirited."

"I never saw that one," admits Raffe. "I've heard about it, though. The critics didn't seem to like it that much."

I shrug. "I didn't like it either, honestly, but Paige adored it. She was devastated to find out that there weren't any action figures for her to play with. But, Ogden" – I squint at him, stepping over a stray root – "I don't know where to categorize you. You're… different. Not in a bad way, though. I find you to be pretty cool, actually."

Ogden beams like a praised toddler, turning back to the front, grinning. His steps are high and his arms swing. Scruffy, enthused by Ogden's change in demeanor, pants louder. A thread of drool sways from his large pink tongue.

"Maybe he'd be a travelling character," considers Raffe. "A light wanderer to my mysterious and sexy."

I glance at him. "You seem to know an _awful lot_ about movies," I note. Delirious thoughts worm their way into my brain. "What, were you some sort of archangel couch-potato?"

Raffe's eyes go cold, dark blue webbed with frost. "_Excuse me?_"

I enthuse the thought a little while longer. "What, does that not even correlate to your angelic terms?" I tease. "Is Raphael too ashamed to admit his fascination in monkey television? Too proud to admit his obsession with Disney?"

"Your imagination must be bored," Raffe scolds. "You're going crazy. Maybe we should find a doctor for your mental health."

Through the trees, a voice calls, the tone light and the sound young. "Is it doctors you're interested in, then?"

Scruffy tosses up his head and howls jubilantly, springing forward like a rabbit. He bounds over a crest in the terrain, the wolf's excited yips quickly harmonized with the jovial laughter of some male voice. Beaming, Ogden limps a little quicker, waving excitedly to us.

"Hugo," mutters Raffe beneath his breath. Glancing once at me, he breaks into a jog

I dash forward, feet dancing over the leaves. Ogden hobbles weakly, trying to keep pace, but his crippled leg can't seem to compare to my long strides. Once, I slip on moss and nearly tumble to the leaves before regaining my footing, but mostly, I run flawlessly. Sliding down the hill separating me and the strange voice, I nearly crash into Scruffy.

What awaits me is another steampunk cosplayer sitting in a clearing.

"You took your time," he comments, coppery eyes flashing humorously. "Tell me, are you customers or friends? Customers are always welcome!"

"Wh – you're Hugo?" I stutter, confusion mounting.

"That would be me, yes," the boy concurs cheerfully. "What can I interest you in? I see you've already got an angel sword, but does it need mending? Or do you want an angel shield? There's a discount next week, so stick around, because it's really annoying to have to lug it around everywhere!"

Tall and thin, he is slighted by Raffe's height, but not by much. His face is much younger than I had originally expected, the juvenile curves reminding me of a fifteen-year-old's face, but, already, the dust of a beard dapples his chin. A grubby leather aviator's jacket with a fluffy edging sheathes a loose shirt; the cream-colored collar of his shirt crowns the slope of his neck, the pale color forcing the coiling black tattoo on his flesh to stand out more. A fingerless leather glove framed with brass covers one hand, and a utility belt wraps around his waist. Oddly stitched combat boots cuff dress pants at the knees. A black tie is casually hangs loosely around his neck. In his shaggy hair, a long strand of flashy beads is strewn, the gleam reminding me of abalone. It would be a lie to say that his appearance is not handsome in a quirky, youthful sort of fashion, but his coppery red eyes ruin the style slightly.

"My," he gasps excitedly, "are you Penryn? Penryn Young? Well, now, staring into the face of a celebrity! Then I guess that would be Pooky Bear" – he gestures flamboyantly towards the sword in my hand – "and that must be the terrifying angel Raphael!" Hugo backs away, eyes twinkling. "Don't eat me, kind archangel sir. I promise you, I'm nothing but skin and bones."

Raffe doesn't seem very amused. "What do you mean, you have angel shields?"

"Ah, I have _an_ angel shield." Hugo shrugs. "Don't rip me to pieces. I'm just a merchant, trading goods. The angel looked like he wanted it off his hands, so we organized a bargain. It's what I do. Ah, Ogden." Hugo parries around Raffe and scurries up the hill. "These people are confusing me. Are they customers?"

Ogden shrugs, then rubs his belly.

"Well, why didn't you say so?" Hugo turns to me again with a beatific smile. "If you're here for food, we don't charge anything for meals. And if you're Ogden's friend, then I can give up my cheerful merchant façade." His face melts slightly from the tight glee it'd held moments before. One hand rubs at his eyes. He cracks his neck, yanking his head from side to side. "Oh, boy, I hate forcing cheer. Natural cheer is good. Faked auctioneer cheer is not."

"Wait, so you sell things?" My brow furrows. "Angelic items? That business can't be very profitable."

"Actually, it's not at all profitable. I just go from place to place and _trade_ items to anyone who wants to get rid of 'em. Any quirky magic items, and building materials." Hugo spreads his arms out, indicating the piles of clutter littering the relatively clean clearing. "Angel helms, angel swords, angel shields. No angel parts, stop giving me that glare, Batsy." He cocks a sassy eyebrow at Raffe. "I don't get anything out of the exchange if we're talking currency. But I make friends, valuable friends, and I pick up secrets. Yep, I only make actual business in my secrets."

"Angels have been coming to you?" Raffe's lip curls. "Why?"

"I'm a wee bit older than I look," admits Hugo humbly. One hand sifts through Scruffy's thick mane, as if he's searching the wolf for bugs. "Over the decades, I've struck up some friends among my feathered partners. Of course, most of the ones I've been associating with are in hiding – it's not safe for a solicitous angel, not anymore."

Raffe's jaw clenches. "Who are the angels you have been dealing with, exactly?"

"That's my policy." Hugo shrugs apologetically. "It's to ensure the safety of all my clients, unless, of course, I have a particular dislike of them or their opinions. Once, I got Michael, and he was a real bitch about getting some sandals. Like, I just had boots, so take the goddamned boots and get on with it. So when Thea came along asking about him, of course I told her I'd seen him!"

"Thea?" I inquire, a ghost of a memory spluttering my pulse.

"Yeah, I'm keeping her a secret," apologizes Hugo with a surreptitious glance in my direction. "But, seriously, Raphael and Penryn Young, running into me? Fate is such a delicious thing! Maybe, after you guys are nice and fed and plump, we can discuss maybe me giving away some secrets to the lovely Miss Young" – he tips his head respectfully – "in hopes that she may save humanity!"

Cautiously, I narrow my eyes at him. "What's for dinner?"

"Rabbit." He jabs a finger at a few of the fluffy morsels strung up from the low hanging limb of an evergreen tree. "Shot 'em this morning with my bow. Not for sale, by the way. Why?"

"And we can go if we'd like?" verifies Raffe.

"Well, yeah." Hugo's face scrunches, as if he's puzzled. "Why wouldn't you be able to? I mean, I don't think you're Fallen, but you can still fly with those wings, right?"

Raffe nods crisply, but his eyes are suspicious. "How do you know about the difference between angel and Fallen?"

"I told you." Hugo spreads his hands wide. "I work with all sorts of clients. Angels especially get offended if you call 'em by the wrong name. For example: one time, I called a seraph a cherub, and it nearly bit my head off. That would've been extremely bad."

"Who have you been funding recently?" I inquire.

"Can't say, but the twins certainly told me to keep an eye out for you." Hugo winks at me. "Obi thinks you're dead, but they're having none of it. Clever boys, they are. I taught them all they know."

"Wha –" I blink. "Whatever. The real question is: Will you stab me in the back tonight?" It's brunt, and most likely to be answered untruthfully, but I might as well cut to the chase.

"Well, I can't say for certain." Hugo scratches his chin, eyes twinkling. "I mean, if you come at me with Pooky Bear in hand, I'm not going to sit idly by. But if we make a mutual no-stabbing-in-the-back treaty, I can assure it, yes, but I'm afraid that Batsy here may try to hurt Scruffy." At the sound of his name, Scruffy mewls pathetically, his huge eyes glistening in the fading daylight. "He's not one to deal with wolves, now are you, Raphael?"

"Call me Wrath," snaps Raffe irritably, crossing his arms over his chest. The superiority he glares down at Hugo with reveals the Raphael just waiting to emerge: black, bitter, cold. _Dangerous_.

A wistful expression consumes Hugo's expression. "If only a greater percentage of you archangels were – were – at least bi! I'd take a bi archangel! But _no_, have to be straight, always straight… Ah well, what can I say? If there was a gay archangel, I'd know about it."

"You're…" I cock my head. "Gay?"

Raffe seems shell-shocked, blinking dumbly. His proud stance falters a little, settling into something slightly more defensive.

"Yep." Hugo nods enthusiastically as Scruffy laps at the side of his face. "Not Ogden, though; I'm not creepy, I swear. No, his wife died a little while back. Poor guy's all alone now."

Ogden blushes again, eyes downcast. My empathy for the old mute strengthens more than ever; it's as if someone is twisting my heart in my chest.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to him.

Ogden shrugs, and gestures towards Hugo, and smiles again.

"Even I don't know what you meant there, buddy," laughs Hugo apologetically, the tinkling bell his laughter seemingly belonging to a boy without a care. It's a laugh worthy of World Before.

Warily, I study Hugo's face, searching for any sign of hostile intentions. If he's traveled as much as he claims, then… he might know someone that could help Paige. "Do you know any medical personnel, with all your travels?"

Raffe half-cocks his head to watch me.

"So you _are_ looking for doctors." Hugo's enthusiasm fades. He scratches at the back of his neck, nails raking over the blank ink there. "Sorry, but not really. I mean, not anymore. The apocalypse and everything – no. Sorry, I don't know anyone. But…"

"But what?" I press urgently.

"We're meeting up with somebody that's been around a whole helluva lot longer time than me down the way a bit. Now, Bryon, he knows people, lots of people. That guy's got deep connections. If you stick around a bit, you might be able to talk to him."

"Bryon?" I question.

Hugo nods sheepishly. "Sorry, but that's one secret I can't let out. He's real nice, though. Practically raised me, and a whole buncha other misfits. You'll fit right in, I do believe." His eyes sparkle at that, as if some inner trickster had been delighted by his joke. Scruffy starts sniffing at his hair.

I nod slowly. "I think we'll need to talk it over" – I cast a sharp glance at Raffe – "but I think we should be able to come to an agreement. One more thing?"

"Yes?" wonders Hugo.

"I – I've got a sister. She's back at camp, and I probably need to fetch her before she gets too worried."

Hugo's eyes soften, melting like metal a forge. "Ah, yes, the poor little girl. She's welcome here. This camp is just filled with people who don't belong. She will be no different than Ogden and I."

A surge of gratitude floats my heart. "Thanks. I think she needs people that treat her like an actual human being."

Hugo's smile is dry. "Don't we all. Hey, if you want, I can give you a ride on Scruffy." He pats the wolf's shoulder, looping two fingers through the breast collar. Adoration swallows his expression as Hugo massages his wolf's neck. "I know he looks scrawny, but he's all muscle, I can assure you. You'll probably get there a little faster than just walking."

"Can that saddle hold more than one person?" I question skeptically.

"I know for sure it can hold two. If I need to walk on the return journey, I will."

Studying Scruffy's grinning face, I smile. "Sounds like a plan. Stay here, Raffe, and try to think of a reason not to trust these people. I'm coming up dry."

Ogden rolls his eyes, but still, the old man is grinning.

* * *

**I do not believe I have any commentary on this, other than: tada! I'm not sure when I'll actually get around to posting the chapter – I'm in the middle of Pride and Prejudice, an excellent book, dare I say, and I'm enjoying reading it. For years, I've watched the BBC 1995 version on repeat, but it's great to finally get around to having the book in hand. A word for the wise: always watch the 1995 version.**

**There was more than one inquiry after Josiah. Both times, there was a request for the underrated angel. I will have him appear, and he will become useful to the plot – but not quite yet. You have my word, he will be a character. Honestly? I like Josiah, a lot.**

**POLL: Hugo – sketchy or trustworthy?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

The embers resemble fairies, climbing high into the night. Ogden's dark eyes reflect the rising ash, orange specks swimming in the pools of brown. He sits next to me, separating Hugo and me. His face seems to be taken to another era by the swirling dance of the embers he so keenly evades, and his ignorance to the rest of the world is lucid over his misshapen face.

However, Hugo had clearly heard the question. His lips pull back into an impish smile, the firelight casting shadows over the sharp angles of his face. He almost seems identical to the wolf whose head lies in his lap; the same pair of twitching eyes jumping around, the same ears that seem to swivel to the sound of any sound, the same candid smile. But in Scruffy, there is only the innocence of a pup grown large. In Hugo, there is a more mysterious manner that has me on edge.

"Well, if you must know, I'm not quite sure where the term 'steampunk' came from." Hugo's smile is teasing, his eyebrows cocked. "But we had to pick a theme, when we started travelling together. Good business, it is, plus it's fun to pick up outfit extras to switch out and trade. So, when we were picking this theme, I had to take in account Ogden's business, which is blacksmithing. He's a blacksmith, and I'm a mechanic and-slash-or merchant. So we gave birth to 'steampunk.'" He mimes tipping a hat. "Thank you very much."

"I'm still intrigued as to who you're selling things to. There are not that many buyers in the stuff you primarily are marketing." Raffe had not spoken this whole time, and his voice from the shadows of the campfire ring startles me a little, and causes Paige to lift her head in alarm. Ogden jumps to his feet, blushes, and sits back down on his log.

Hugo's eyes twinkle with embers. "Well, now, that's not necessarily true."

"Name species you trade with," orders Raffe. Instead of casting frightening shadows over his face, the firelight barely brushes his skin, a single tongue sweeping down his chiseled neck bones. His eyes glitter with the fire. "Not names, merely… species."

"Seraphim," reports Hugo. "I do business with them. Once, I met one named Seraphina. Best day of my life, it was. Hmm. Hunters, usually. There's always at least one of you angelic bastards on the Earth at any point in time, so I often find myself trading around for sword repairs. Ogden can do those, by the way." He nods at Pooky Bear. "Any damned human. My own species is my favorite, because, let's face it, we've got the perfect balance of assholes and airheads! Oh, and Nephilim, we can't forget them. Heck, I'd be broke without Nephilim. Also, Fallen. I have been –"

"Nephilim?" There is ice in Raffe's voice. "What dealings do you have with Nephilim?"

Ogden's face goes stony, but his eyes reflect the embers more than ever. Hugo glares at Raffe coldly.

"Look, I know you think that you've got Nephilim all wrapped up with a big bow," says Hugo flatly, "but you don't. Everybody knows what you did to the peaceful children on that mountainside. And ever since the first few survivors stumbled away, you've been making enemies that you didn't even know existed."

"Survivors?" Raffe thunders. "Their blood watered the Earth. There were no survivors."

Ogden flinches. Hugo tilts his head to one side, eyes narrowed, and I get the feeling that both of their testosterone levels are climaxing.

"Have you ever heard the expression, 'The mutt barks like a dog, howls like a wolf' before, Raphael?" Hugo questions icily. "It means that, as soon as you turn your back, somebody that's been playing the good little pup is going to become the big, bad beast. And that's the secret I'll give to you." Hugo's expression softens slightly. "Look, man, I was brought up on the belief that everyone has good in them. And I'm trying to make that apply to you, too. Archangel Raphael's got a god-awful rep. I don't think you're that bad – you are not insisting for sandals when all I have are boots, for starters. But there are other creatures out there that are a lot more powerful than me and won't give you that benefit of the doubt."

"What kind of creatures?" Raffe practically snarls, tension audible.

Paige shrinks into my lap, clutching at my knee. Scruffy's ears lay back. Ogden slips into the shadows like a ghost.

"To Hell if I know." Hugo waves a hand wearily, massaging Scruffy's ears in comfort. "Look, we'll have a testosterone facedown somewhere else more suitable than in a forest full of ears. Plus, we're scaring Scruffy. He's easily spooked."

"And Paige," I add, glaring at Raffe reproachfully.

From somewhere in the darkness, Ogden grunts.

It's hard not to smile. "Ogden, too."

Raffe's eyes reflect the firelight. He's too distant from the flame's embrace for me to see his expression. "May I speak to you alone, Penryn?"

If I were to judge from tone alone, I'd say that Raffe is mildly pissed.

Gently, I tap Paige's shoulder. Leaning down to her ear, I whisper, "Stay close to the fire, sweetie." Head swiveling so her eyes meet mine, Paige nods in stiff understanding. She draws near to the orange flames, holding her little hands out to the fire.

Rising on stiff legs, I follow Raffe into the darkness. My muscles ache even more than previously; it turns out that riding Scruffy had been much simpler than it'd been illustrated as. You only need shift your weight to guide him, to speed him up or slow him down. I took great pleasure in running his about in circles until darkness fell over the forest while Raffe toured all of Hugo's wonders. But now, after the glorious rides have come to an end, I feel their aching punishments all through my thighs.

"What is it?" I hiss when we near a safe distance.

Raffe whirls about. The moon only illuminates the contours of his hair, the leather of his wings, the gleam of his eyes, and the movement of his lips. "I don't like this, Penryn. I don't like this one bit."

"Neither do I," I admit. "But, even if Hugo seems a little bizarre, I trust Ogden. He's too innocent to travel with a total monster."

"Hugo is hiding something." Raffe's tone is absolute.

"Well, obviously," I mutter. "He stated that part of his profession was keeping secrets. And, if we don't piss him off, he'll keep ours, too. Look, Raffe, if this isn't working out, then we can leave. But I think we should at least stick around until this 'Bryon' man shows up. If he doesn't live up to our expectations, we can leave, immediately."

"Hmm."

"…That's all you've got?"

"For the time being, yes. My wit has gone wherever my alertness has galloped off to."

"Aww," I coo, batting my eyelashes at him. "Is the angely-wangely getting _sweepy_?"

"Your wit is intact, I see, but dull as ever."

"And yours seems to be making a comeback." I smile up at him. "Look, at least we've gotten a nice meal out of this and a nice place to spend the night. You heard Hugo. Scruffy will stand watch, so we can get a good night's rest."

"I'm not sure how much I trust a wolf monster," admits Raffe dubiously, his head turning in the darkness of the night to glance the wolf's way.

I roll my eyes. "You'll get over it. That mutt would never let anything happen to his master, or Ogden. As it so happens, we're travelling with Ogden and Hugo, so we're safe."

"I suppose it hasn't exactly ripped off anyone's head," Raffe acknowledges. "So I suppose he isn't a killer."

"Paranoia is a killer."

"So is recklessness."

I laugh. "Your wit is perfectly fine, it would seem!" I exclaim.

"This isn't wit, it's child's play."

"Well, yeah, Rome wasn't built in a day. You'll have to work up to meet my level." A frost-kissed breeze tousles my hair and whips strands into my mouth. My mood swings abruptly, affected greatly by the chills creeping through the fabric of my shirt and the lust to gather around the fire once more. "We'll figure out Hugo. I'm sure his personality will unravel. It's not like he's threatened you or anything. Just warned you."

"That was a rather belligerent warning," points out Raffe.

"Those were rather belligerent questions," I defend, choosing a neutral standpoint. "Neither of you are at fault so far. Let's just get back to the fire. It's too cold to just sit here and argue. We'll wait for Bryon?" I confirm, looking up at him in question.

After brief hesitation, Raffe nods crisply. "We'll wait for Bryon."

Ogden is back by the fire when we return, lounging upon the log beside Hugo with one hand fondling Scruffy's mane, his gaze once more fixed upon the fire lapping at the starlit sky. He smiles in greeting at me, waving timidly in the night.

"So, what else you wanna know about me?" wonders Hugo, eyes twinkling. "Anything of interest?"

"Scruffy?" I question, easing my weight down on the moist log again. The fire's warmth banishes the icy cold seeping into my skin, replacing it with scalding heat. Paige eases against my leg, and I play with her hair, absently braiding it sloppily.

Hugo beams, and cuddles the wolf to his chest. Scruffy's tail wags, hissing over the dry leaves. Pressing their foreheads together, Hugo softly fondles the thick fur on either side of his wolf's face.

"Honestly, I'm not sure what Scruffy is or how he came to be. I know that after I lost my family and home to a fire, he came to me, and he carried me to Bryon. Scruffy is so goddamned fast, he got there before I bled to death. Ever since, we've been inseparable. It's… like he understands me, you know? Like when I talk to him, he can comfort me by cuddling, or when I'm bummed about losing something, he'll go off and sniff it out with that retarded nose of his. It's almost like he's an apology for that living hell I went through."

"What living hell?" I question curiously.

"Another time, perhaps." Hugo's smile is brittle, and pain is kindled within his gaze.

Ogden grunts, slapping a knee for attention. My eyes flick to him from across the fire. He mimes strumming on a guitar, staring imploringly at Hugo.

Hugo laughs heartily and reaches for something beyond the fire ring, startling Scruffy. The wolf woofs in alert surprise, pulling his head up. Upon realization, Scruffy's tail wags, and he lunges for Hugo's face with a fat pink tongue, smothering his master's laughter. Trying to bat his wolf away, Hugo pushes himself off the log and crashes into the leaves behind it. Scruffy pounces delightedly on Hugo, despite the boy's rabid attempts to shake the pup off.

Ogden shrugs and shakes his head in mock disappointment, the grin spread over his face ruining any attempt at scorn.

Paige's shoulders quiver slightly, and I realize that she's laughing at the boy and his wolf.

* * *

That night, I dream of an angel.

_His wings are broad, muscles pumping with each majestic flap. The golden feathers filter and reflect the brilliant light of the orange sun setting over the snow-capped horizon, each feathertip fringed with pure white. The angel bears no shirt, just simple pants, and those in themselves are threadbare. Against his chest, though, a swaddle of cloth rests, a bundled sling thrown over his head and crossing his body. One hand remains on the swaddle at all times, as if to secure it. _

_I cannot clearly see his face, not well enough to know if he is as handsome as every angel – my dream is blurred, unfocused if the attention is to any face. But I do know that his eyes are gold, and shine like two metal coins in the sunset. His hair is blonde, and maintains the same reflective quality as everything adorning his tanned body. _

_The angel at first dances on sunbeams, and his are movements quick and incisive in the air. But then he levels out over the mountain, coasting over the miles upon miles of leafy green evergreen trees reaching to the sky. It is not until sometime he finds a tree that is sole in its placement, canopy much higher than that of its surrounding duplicates. The angel alights on this tree, this tree located at the edge of a magnificent cliff dropping into more of the dark forests. _

_He folds his metallic wings and rests on a branch, a clear view of the gorgeous setting sun visible from the top limb. The sun is more gold now than orange – the clouds surrounding the sun are so beautiful it's like a painting more than a dream. I can almost taste the humidity in the air, feel the sun on my skin, and smell the scent of pine wafting into the evening sky. _

_But my attention soon returns to the angel as he unfurls something from the swaddle. I become aware of the wailing cries of a baby, a mere infant, originating from that little swaddle. I try to draw closer to the bundle, to see what the angel clutches in the palm of one hand, but the dream is taking me on a journey more than I am conjuring it. _

_I see the angel use one hand to stroke the child I am sure remains inside. For the first time, I hear his voice. It's melodic, like the thrum of a massive bell, or the throaty notes of a cello playing the deepest chords. _

_"Hush," the angel whispers in a language that is not English, and yet easily comprehendible to me and my dream. His golden eyes melt, his curbed expression faltering. He clutches the bundle back against his chest. "Are you cold, little demon spawn? Is that what it is?"_

_I know from experience that angels are warm; they have to be, to navigate high in the chilly air without shirts like they do. The baby soon figures that out as well, silencing without another whimper. The angel's expression only softens further. _

_"Ah. Yes. You are so fragile, little demon spawn." The angel watches the baby in his arms. "I could break your neck right here if I chose. I could save my wife of the torment I know will come from you, little demon."_

_But instead of bawling again, a single hand emerges from the swaddle, so tiny. Even tinier than what an infant would have. The tiny palm lies against the pectoral of the angel, right over the heart. The angel's eyes grow wide, and the baby babbles in unintelligible excitement._

_"Do you hear my heart, little demon? Is that why you are so delighted?" The angel bows his head closer. "I can hear yours. That little thump-thump. Such a fragile thump-thump, isn't it?" The angel pauses. Then, with a hand large enough to crush the child with a single swipe, he touches the child's heart. "Does that please you, little demon spawn?"_

_Sure enough, the baby giggles again. _

_I can't be sure, but it seems that the angel's lips twitch in the slightest whim of a smile. "You will be the death of me," he informs the child, but it only responds by laughing a bit louder, perhaps hearing the vibrations of his magnificent vocals. _

_Throwing back his head of golden hair, the angel laughs alongside his child, thunder greeting zephyr. In the same moment, the last sunlight eases over the horizon, and the moon shines overhead instead like a large blind eye. _

_"Do you know what that is, silly one?" chuckles the angel, jabbing a finger at the sky. "It's called a moon. Not just any moon, but a full moon. Strange things happen on a full moon, little demon. Strange, but not necessarily evil. Do you wish to see?"_

_The infant giggles louder, and the angel seems to take that as consent. Securing the child against his breast once more, the angel glides to the forest floor. As soon as his feet hit the ground, a wave of luminescence passes through the forest, turning the ground black and the trees midnight blue. Each one of the wildflowers blossoming over the leaves glow like stars themselves, and the ones that the infant lands on drift into the sky like bubbles. They float up and up, entrancing both father and child as they disappear behind the clouds. _

_"Do you wish to touch one, little son?" the angel whispers. He takes his child in one hand, holding him out gently, and kneels. More flowers burst into the air, twirling upwards into the sky. The baby's hand flails, by accident brushing more of the blossoms. He giggles as they gently float up and up to greet the moon._

_"They are beautiful, aren't they, silly one?" the angel laughs, clutching his son back to his chest. A heaving sigh echoes through the clearing. "The Lord knows that I should snap your neck, little son. Not only are you a demon, but you are a _runt_. You have no wings. You will not survive the first winter." The angel's fingers trail over his son's face, and his golden eyes are intense. "But your laugh, little son, I cannot take from you. To do so would be an even greatest sin. Your laugh is the most beautiful thing I have ever had the pleasure of hearing."_

_And to this, the little boy laughs._

* * *

I awaken with an ungraceful snort as Paige rolls over to find a more comfortable position, my thoughts still muddy with sleep. In vain, I try to close my eyes, to rejoin the dream I had just exited. But already, the boy's giggled laugh is fading from me, lost among countless other memories and discarded dreams.

To make matters worse, it seems that sleep had deprived me of the chill of the night now nipping bitterly at me. I curl tighter around my baby girl, shivering, trying to shake off Jack Frost's bitter grasp. Although Paige is warm, I am her blanket, like a sleeping cat and its kitten. I alone face the brutal elements.

A warmth does make itself know, a trace of heat against my back. Groggy with sleep, I try to lean into the warmth, seeking protection from the cold. My back brushes two strips of leather, and another grunt informs me that I am no longer the only one awake.

My guilt fully pries open my eyes.

Though I yearn to see who I had disturbed, I cannot turn, cannot risk jarring Paige and all her fragile bruises and stitches. I see Ogden sleeping beside us, clear in my range of vision. He must've crashed not long after Paige and I, though I am sure both of the other males sat by the fire long into the night. The question is merely who I have rudely interrupted.

Craning my neck back, I whisper, "Who is that?"

"Lucifer," mutters a sleepy voice back. "I've come to take you down to Hell with me for touching my wings."

I release a long breath. Of course Raffe wouldn't like Hugo to sleep beside me.

"Sorry," I breathe back, angling my words away from Paige's sensitive ears. Scooting away from him slightly, I coil my legs around Paige, too, trying to seek any warmth I can.

It is quite a while before my teeth chatter, clashing together crudely and slamming into my tongue. They jitter uncontrollably, harmonizing with the shivers racking my body. It's as if sleep had spared me from this cold, like a blanket on a child's bed. But now the blanket has been ripped from me, and I am alone against the Arctic winds.

"You're cold," observes a voice from behind me, his tone awake and concerned.

"No shit, Sherlock," I whisper, squeezing my eyes together.

He falls silent again, perhaps at last falling asleep after my rude intrusion on his heat. Again, I press my head into Paige's hair.

A hand lies over my own, warm fingers lain over each of mine. I start in surprise as a warm, warm body wraps around me like my blanket. He calms my startled response to his heat with a single word in my ear: "Hush."

Raffe's breath tickles my hair. Gently, he lifts my head, and pillows it on one of his massive biceps. His flex and relax of muscle snaps my eyes open and quickens my breathing to a noticeable degree. The hand lain over mine gently pulls Paige closer to me and me closer against the hard muscles of Raffe's stomach and chest. His legs curl into the nook of mine, pressing every inch of his body to mine.

"I can't let the Evil Queen get cold," Raffe explains in a deep whisper, his lips at my ear. A different sort of shiver rattles up my spine. "That would be disastrous."

"How benevolent of you," I whisper back, trying to cock my head to see his face. The chattering of my teeth is persistent, but my shivers are soon vanquished by his heat. "It's like I'm being given the grandest gift in all the world. One had to have put a lot of thought into such a present."

Raffe's smile is tangible against my hair. "But you see, I know exactly what you need, my Queen," he purrs, reverberating voice vibrating against my back. "So it took only the slightest thought to conjure an image of what I might provide for you."

"I suppose that if I am to retain my connection to hellfire, I must keep warm." Almost against my will, I feel my wit dulling, my eyes drooping, and my body warming from head to toe. "You're certainly very toasty."

Raffe chuckles, the warmth of his body not fit for comparison to the warmth in his laugh. "Go to sleep," Raffe urges softly, nuzzling against my hair. "You're tired, and we've got a long day ahead of us. I promise I won't leave you when you shut your eyes."

"Mmmkay." Snuggling against Raffe's chest and bundling Paige to mine, I allow my eyes to droop, shutting to crescents and then closing entirely. Our breathing synchronizes as I lose myself to the dreams returning. My deliriously sleepy mind seems to believe it can hear Raffe chanting in another language, singing me softly to sleep.

* * *

**I had so much fun writing that last bit there. **

**Again, I'm not wholly sure when I'll post this – I'm not a very constant writer, I did all of this in one sitting, but other times I've been hopping around from place to place. **

**To those it concerns: Admittedly, I often lean much more towards fantasy than sci-fi with my writing – I apologize, and I do attempt to work at it. The steampunk aspect was explained here, but I feel that there may be more fantasy/sci-fi questions to come. **

**POLL: Ogden's got a secret! Can anyone figure it out yet?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

I find it amusing that, no matter how much tensions rise in our small group, Scruffy is always there to play the ignorant fool. Hugo laughs quietly to himself, patting his beast on the rump.

"Get up, you drama queen," he scolds playfully, kicking at Scruffy's legs. "If you were watching the road ahead of you, you wouldn't have fallen."

Scruffy bays mournfully, staggering to his feet, coppery eyes wide. Tears glint in the watery surface, and his pathetic whimpers are heartrending. With exaggerated difficulty, the wolf rises, slender legs unfolding. His paws seem to barely rise from the soft dirt coating the path. Ears drooping, Scruffy limps back to the center of the path, plush tail hanging low.

"Aw, buddy," whines Hugo, falling into step beside his beast, "I didn't mean it. You're the best big wolf thing ever."

As soon as the apology leaves Hugo's mouth, I feel the rapid shift of attitude in the wolf's aura. Scruffy swings his head around and slams it into Hugo's chest. He loses his balance with a surprised _oof_, and Scruffy sends the boy tumbling down the very same slope he had tripped over. As Hugo rolls down the slope, desperately grappling for underbrush to hold, the leaves hiss and swirl in his trail. Even Raffe pauses to watch Hugo's humiliation. The wolf's howls acutely resemble the laughter issued from both Ogden's lips as well as my own, and his prancing gait seems to taunt Hugo.

Cursing colorfully but with lively spirit dancing in his eyes, Hugo brushes the leaves from his shoulders and bowls up the hill. Upon realization, Scruffy attempts to dash away with the speed I know he can, but the pack strapped to his saddle hinders any swift retreat. Hugo tackles his wolf, and they both go flying down the other side of the ridge in a bundle of fur and skin.

Ogden shakes his head and assumes the front position, marching ahead with a steady beat. Glancing down at the pack-wolf and the navigator tussling on the ground like children, I follow half a beat after, nudging Paige gently along with me. She smiles at Scruffy and Hugo, but she makes no attempt to join in with their tussling. Pain tightens her expression.

I rub Paige's shoulders worriedly. With much coaxing, she'd taken a few bites of rabbit last night – meager spoonfuls, and each was gulped down quickly, as if the taste was unbearable. So far, she'd been able to keep it down – but her hunger could not have been so easily satisfied. With each minute that passes, each slow minute slipping past like thick honey gradually dribbling down, the more anxious I become to find this Bryon and soon after, a doctor. Not just any doctor, but a doctor who can save Paige, and maybe fix Raffe's wings.

Raffe tails the group, his breath practically at my neck. If anyone should attempt to jump us from behind, I don't think they'll be very pleased with their results. With the mood Hugo has riled him up into, I doubt that he'll be crushed by their appearance.

The alignment before two positions had vacated made considerable sense; first, it's Scruffy, the most qualified to pick out any ambushers or wild animals that might pose a threat – I'd assumed he'd just cower instead of actually attacking, which would be enough incentive that something nasty is lurking, but earlier, he'd viciously gone after a bobcat hiding beneath the brush at the side of the path. The cat's yowls of pain mixing with Scruffy's furious snarls had haunted Paige to the extent that I'd clapped my hands over her ears to muffle it as best possible.

After Scruffy comes Hugo, to guide the wolf and the group. Paige is still sandwiched between Ogden and I – Pooky Bear and Ogden's hammer should be sufficient to put an end to any attack targeting my little girl.

So far, our little trip has been rather uneventful – aside for the scintillating banter of Hugo and Raffe, Hugo and Scruffy, and Hugo and Hugo, nothing had been all that entertaining. So I'd taken it upon myself to admire the California wilderness.

Golden sunlight trickles in through the mottled pattern of leaves and needles swaying overhead. The designs sway hypnotically over the speckled brown and topaz ground at the slightest breeze, trees themselves rocking to the wind's will. Rocks and crisp mountain streams pepper the forest, oftentimes going hand in hand. I don't need to dip a finger into the water to know that it's ice cold, still frozen by the chill of the previous night. More than once, we'd passed overhead of a herd of mule deer, travelling along a ridge or something.

Just once, we'd passed a white creature. Ogden had gotten extremely excited upon seeing it, jabbing a finger at the strange four-legged animal, but, frightened by the sudden movement, it had galloped swiftly off.

"Hey, Ogden?"

The old man cocks his head to me, friendly eyes goading me to continue my inquiry.

"How much longer until we get to rest? I think Paige is hungry." I place a hand over Paige's head, brushing her hair away from her face.

Ogden's eyes soften. He smiles gently at Paige, slowing his walk slightly. Holding true to their word, both he and Hugo had been remarkably accepting of Paige. They'd treated her more civilly than I had, initially. I suppose working with Seraphim and whatever else Hugo had listed softens them slightly to strange creatures, but they hadn't shied from her touch or her company in the slightest. In fact, Hugo had even gone so far as to teach Paige a hand game while Ogden had been preparing rabbit.

Ogden holds up his hands in a fair distance apart, then gestures elaborately towards the horizon. I don't quite perceive his meaning, but I nod my head in understanding all the same.

Raffe's voice sounds from behind me. "If she really is hungry, we can stop now," he offers. "A few miles won't hurt anything."

Ogden flinches. He eyes the surrounding forest and shakes his head rigorously, waving both hands to signify a negative response. The wariness furrowing his brow catches my attention for the first time.

"Why not?" My curiosity is almost as potent an enemy as my bluntness. "I mean, not that I'm being rude and insisting or anything. I'm just wondering what's up with this area."

Ogden lifts his fingers to his mouth like fangs and snarls. His gait turns hulking, and he stomps a few paces before dropping the façade.

"A monster's territory?" verifies Raffe, voice hardening into stone.

Ogden nods his confirmation.

"Then why are Scruffy and Hugo acting like nuts?" I wonder, lip curling. "We should get out of here as soon as possible."

"'Nuts' is harsh." Hugo appears beside me, his lower lip stuck out. "I prefer the term mentally challenged."

I jump out of my skin at his sudden appearance. Judging by the sudden skitter in Raffe's audible footsteps behind me, he'd been taken off guard as well.

"Where did you come from?" I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose between two fingers. "Weren't you just off doing something?"

"I was," he consents, "but now I'm back. Caught you by surprise, didn't I? Hah. Remember, I taught Dee-Dum everything they know. I'm like Papa Bird, and they're the little chicklets doing their little chicklet things." He blinks, brow scrunching. "Is 'chicklet' a gender specific term? Hope not."

"Oh, well, I'm not sure." From my arms, Paige shakes her head in bafflement. Ogden shrugs. Raffe remains silent, aside from a quiet threat issued not to Hugo, but to Scruffy: "If you lick the side of my face one more time you will wish you were battling a demon…"

"If you lay a hand on him, you will wish you were battling all the angelic armies at once." Hugo's coppery glare is fierce, his teeth peeking through his lips.

"Then tell your mutt to leave me alone."

Hugo holds up his hands. "He got a taste of your holy face this morning, mister, and he got addicted. I almost feel sorry for releasing him, but, you know, I've never heard anyone snore so loud befpre, and you had poor Penryn pinned against you." Hugo's smile is wolfish. "I've never seen someone look so explicitly uncomfortable in my life! So of course I sent Scruffy after you. Nothing else would work."

My face burns, flushing red. Although both Ogden and Hugo have full visibility of my king of blushes, I'm glad that Raffe does not. He, however, does not utter another word. Hugo's coppery red eyes sharpen, his face changing, perhaps to analyze the situation. But before I can catch his calculating expression, it melts away into his usual cheer.

After a minute of awkward silence, Hugo cries, "I know! I must banish this awkward oddness between us! How about a friendly icebreaking game of 'Two Truths and a Lie'?"

"What?" Raffe's tone is flat.

"It's a game," I explain indifferently, glancing back at Raffe. "Basically, it's just as the title says. You give out two truths about yourself and one lie. The goal of the game is to make it clever, so that the other people don't guess the lie. If you're trying to guess, you think long and hard about the person."

"Oh." Raffe falls silent. "I won't disgrace all of you by going first. Instead, Penryn, you go. Should be a nice confidence booster for the rest of us."

"Is that a challenge?" I cock my eyebrows at him. "Well, hmm. Let me think." Even Ogden turns to me expectantly. Rolling my eyes up to the sky, I hum as I scrape up a few thoughts.

"Okay, here goes." With a deep breath, I begin. "I prefer dry spaghetti over cat food, I think that dogs are better than cats" – Scruffy woofs deeply in apparent approval – "and I've seen a total of fifteen female angels in all."

Ogden whistles softly and turns to the trail ahead, skidding down the steep path and disregarding the icebreaking game. He proudly walks several strides ahead of the rest of the group, his attention sliding to the surrounding forests.

Raffe's voice is puzzled. "I'm going to have to go with the first one."

Paige lifts up two fingers with her vote.

"It doesn't seem very likely to me that you'd count the number of female angels you've seen." Hugo smirks confidently. "I'll go with the last option, thanks."

"Well, Hugo knows me better than the angel I've been travelling with for far longer or my little sister." The glower playing teasingly over my face is evenly distributed between the two of them. "Raffe, dry spaghetti will always be better than cat food."

"Yeah, Raffe," Hugo scolds. "Step up to the plate. Learn how to read a woman."

"You're homosexual," Raffe scoffs. "You practically are a woman."

I slam on the brakes, my viselike grip around Paige's hand only tightening. Pivoting on one foot, I twirl to face him, meeting his gaze without quavering. A candid blend of disappointment and rage saturates my tone and narrows my eyes. "Raffe!" I bark sharply.

"Nah, Penryn, it's cool," Hugo dismisses in a nonchalant voice. "It's not like I won't take my revenge."

And he does seem relaxed, aside from the wolfish grin he wears. Beside him, Scruffy bears all his fangs in a smile as well, but his wears the hostility of a threat rather than a joke. Hugo runs his hand through Scruffy's mane in consolation, but the wolf keeps his coppery gaze locked onto Raffe. My alarm bells rattle as the wolf drops his head.

"Excuse him," apologizes Hugo, pulling at Hugo's cheek fur. "He smelled the spike of intense hatred in my veins, and he reacted accordingly. How about I do the next one?"

"Knock yourself out," snaps Raffe. If I were to judge by the acid in his statement alone, I would guess that Raffe's words do not wander far from his true intentions. Stuck between the wolf and demon, I feel vulnerable, and I clutch a little tighter onto Paige's hand.

Hugo scratches his chin, the humor in his eyes returning. "Hmm. Well. My favorite color is blue, for starters. I have slightly telepathic abilities. I have touched Hellfire and survived. Go."

"Hellfire," answers Raffe immediately with grim certainty. "No one can escape that. The only strength of a human is its mind – I don't have a clue what the gifted members of your society may be able to do with telepathy."

Hugo's eyes twinkle, not giving away a scrap of knowledge.

"Telepathy," I estimate. "I've seen enough busts of so-called magic and mumbo jumbo that it's out of the question. As Raffe has just pointed out, humans are pretty goddamn smart – I bet you found a way to stay alive."

Paige holds up a two again.

Ogden grins and turns, holding up a number one.

"Ogden's right!" cries Hugo. "But I suppose that's not fair, because he knows me so well. My favorite color is orange, not blue. I rock the socks off this game. You wanna go next, Raffe?"

"You're telepathic?" I explode, eyes round.

Hugo shrugs. "Slightly. It mostly happens when I'm dreaming – I get little memories of people I've been around for a bit, and beings like Seraphim and occasionally Ogden" – he bows mockingly to the old man – "sometimes talk in my mind. It's pretty neat."

"Hellfire?" wonders Raffe.

Scruffy's lope pauses, his muzzle swinging about to face his master. Hugo's step falters, as if he'd tripped over an imaginary fault in the path. The shaky reediness in his voice is unfamiliar, seemingly unacquainted with Hugo's friendly tones.

"My big brother absorbed it from me." Hugo's voice cracks. "I got burned because I couldn't run fast enough. Damn, Ivan was always so fast. Could've made it out if it hadn't had been for me." His shoulders square, quavering voice solidifying into cold stone. "But the past is the past, and that was a long time ago."

"It would have left you with burns." Raffe's quiet voice is seasoned with fresh respect. "No matter who absorbed it."

"They ache ever night," Hugo acknowledges with a hesitant nod of his head. "But I've gotten used to them. They're nothing like Ogden's burns or anything, so it's cool."

Ogden's shoulders clench slightly, but he raises his head high and scales an upcoming hill.

"Ogden, you're burned?" I question curiously.

"Yep." Hugo nods in confirmation. "Pretty severely, over most of his body. That's why he wears long sleeves and everything. We stick to the cooler portions of the world during the summer so he never has to do anything that makes him uncomfortable."

"That's terrible," I whisper, true sympathy wrenching my heart violently at the thought of burns beneath those steampunk clothes on the innocent old man. "How did it happen?"

Hugo's face scrunches oddly. "Long story short: he collapsed through the roof of a burning house and was trapped inside."

* * *

"Where is he?" Hugo murmurs to Ogden, gaze flicking nervously over the horizon. "Goddamnit, you can't trust Bryon, can you? He's probably frolicking over…"

Hugo breaks off as Ogden jams a finger at the ghost of a white horse galloping through the woods, slender silver limbs quickly hidden by the leafy branches of the forest. A smile tugs at his lips.

"You're right," Hugo whispers. "He's close."

* * *

"Stop yodeling, or whatever sick yowling you're doing," Raffe snaps. His attitude has only deteriorated with each moment spent around the clever Hugo. "You sound like a hollow stick hitting a snake repeatedly."

We'd settled down what seems like hours before, just as the first paint of the evening light began to color the sky. Scruffy had been weary – although the wolf acts spritely beneath the heavy packs, Hugo had explained that his mutt needs as much sleep as anything else, and that standing guard all night doesn't grant him much of it. Paige, too, had started to get anxious, gnashing her teeth together. The metal clicked against the bone in a chilling rhythm, one that had swiftly gained passage to the darker corridors of my morbid imagination.

The area Ogden had selected at the end of the day's march is nearly perfect – I despise the open feel to lounging about in the open woods, and even the high vantage point he'd discovered can't really clear me of any grief. Hugo had erected a rather comfortable habitat, though. The packs of miscellaneous items are strewn about the clearing, forming sofas and benches wherever you may need them, excepting, of course, his stack of valuables. Logs dragged by Raffe from the heart of the woods are angled around a ring of stones and dry wood waiting to be set ablaze the moment the sun dips below the horizon.

Ogden sits hesitantly next to Raffe, casting nervous glances towards the angel. The two of them are both so large they dominate even the largest log. Paige kicks her feet at a stone, volleying it back and forth beside me. Hugo does not sit upon a log, rather resting against it, legs crossed and guitar cradled in his lap. Scruffy sniffs up and down his neck, the wolf's head drowsily lain against the log as a stiff pillow. He seems lulled by Hugo's melody, lids drooping over his eyes. The wolf's tail twitches in the ghost of a content wag.

Hugo grins and strums a teasing chord on his guitar-type thing, the evening light bathing his face in purple. "You're right. It's obviously time for a change in musicians. Since you're so skulky, how about you sing us a song." He twists from the guitar strap, gingerly holding the intricately decorated instrument out to Raffe. "Go ahead, cheer up Paige, put a smile on Penryn's face, let Scruffy bounce to the beat."

Raffe scowls. "Put the guitar away and stop chanting your country diddles."

Hugo's eyebrow cocks. "They're folk songs, lullabies, and camp songs, pigeon-bat. But if you can't comprehend simple music genres, well, your loss. Scruffy can sing better than you, anyway. Ain't that right, Scruffy, boy?"

Adoration consumes Hugo's face, as if he is oblivious to the rising tension that has swamped my lighthearted mood. He rubs a finger beneath Scruffy's chin as the wolf lifts its head, cinnamon fur bouncing as he howls out a single note. The howl is distinctively lupine, a set of wild bays to the dying sun that carry no rhythm or tune. Scruffy's wolfsong echoes off the mountains.

"Shut him up," orders Raffe, back straightening from his miserable slouch. "Everyone can hear us."

"Correction: everyone can hear a wolflike demon scrounging rabidly through the woods, howling to the moon with its thirst for blood." Hugo grins broadly. "I have no idea how he can be so scary. I mean, sure, some other wolves are scary, but not that scary."

Scruffy lets loose a low yowl that turns into a playful growl. Wet nose quivering, he first nuzzles Hugo's wild hair and then nips at a strand, pulling in a jibe to gain Hugo's attention. Responding by stroking Scruffy's head calmly, Hugo rocks his companion from side to side.

"Silly Scruffy," he murmurs. "You probably think you can talk, don't you?"

A laugh blossoms from somewhere hidden within at Scruffy's reaction. "That is the most indignant looking wolf I've ever seen in my life."

Scruffy's gaze turns to me, all thoughts of slumber gone. He growls in a challenge and then mewls out something that sounds vaguely like a baby's bawl.

"Not bad," estimates Hugo, leaning away from his pet to study him. "Sounded a bit like a human. I'll give it a five out of ten. But here's the question: can Penryn trump the score?"

Scruffy yips in defiance, rolling his eyes madly in protest with his score. But he, too, stares at me curiously. Teasing joy glints in Hugo's eyes. Childish delight consumes Ogden's face, bringing his swollen features into an expression of joyous expectation. Raffe's disapproval is palpable in the air. Paige, though, claps her hands and smiles at me, her lips pinching in the pain.

"Let me get this straight," I verify, glaring at Hugo. Hope blossoms in my chest, a prayer that my negativity will crush this competition. "You want me to bark like a dog?"

Scruffy woofs as an example, nodding in harmony with Hugo.

My cheeks flush bright red. Hesitation makes the moment longer, draws more attention to me. The arrogance in Raffe's gaze is nearly as powerful as Paige's round, round eyes. She clutches at my knee, tilting her head to one side and smiling in encouragement.

"I'm going to hate myself," I sigh, but, without pause, I give my best bark.

For a moment, there's painful silence.

Scruffy throws up his head in a high-pitched howl. He rises from the earth, staggering about drunkenly, nearly smashing into Hugo's pile of breakables. His howls of amusement seem to chorus through the woods like an entire pack of wolves. Ogden, who'd raised his hands and clapped a single beat, pauses and furrows his brow.

"I didn't think it was that bad," states Hugo mildly, watching as his mutt nearly thuds into a tree. "Apparently, you've cussed in Wolf or something, though. Wouldn't worry about it too much."

Scruffy's chuckles are ended rather abruptly by a howl, echoing off the snow-capped mountains eerily. He stiffens, ears swiveling in its direction and nostrils flaring, eyes wide with anticipation. The wolf's legs quiver slightly. The camp falls still until the high, crystalline note sailing above the trees cuts off.

"What was that?" growls Raffe, his voice like a peal of thunder.

"Just Scruffy's girlfriend," Hugo laughs, waving it aside. "Now, Jane, as we call her, she's one to look out for. She doesn't have his long legs, but wings – kinda like an angel wolf. But she doesn't ever, ever side with angels. That reminds me – Raffe, if you see a white figure loping through the woods, don't even give Jane an inkling that you're angelic and not fallen."

"You're telling me Scruffy's got a girlfriend," I scoff, shaking my head. "He's a wolf."

Hugo grins. "I suppose he likes it doggy style, then." Catching my angry glance towards Paige and the daggers in my gaze as it fixes on him, he hurriedly changes the subject, rising from the log and turning to Hugo.

"Now, buddy, remember," Hugo lectures importantly, waggling a finger at the wolf, "be a gentleman. Nobody likes a Butler."

"What?" I whisper to Ogden. He shrugs.

"Also, if you kiss her for the first time, do not, I repeat, _do not_, look her in the eyes and tell her that you don't even like her." Hugo slams his finger twice into Scruffy's nose. "To tell her that you don't like her is destroying all your chances. You'll probably create an enemy out of some badass grandma or uncle or something hanging around in the shadows. Now, get out of here!"

My knees feel weak; instantly, I'm grateful for the log Raffe had pulled up. Heat, awful heat, flushes my cheeks. My hand knots in Paige's shirt, clenching painfully, nails biting through the fabric and into my palm. "How do you know that?" I whisper, not trusting myself a glance in Raffe's direction, though I do feel his gaze land upon me several times.

Initially, Hugo ignores the question, slapping Scruffy's rear to quicken his exit, adding a sexual jeer as the wolf hurriedly lopes into the shadows of the darkening dusky forest. But when he turns to me, his smile is sly as the fox.

"I didn't." He saunters over to the log, crossing his legs and cradling that steampunk guitar of his. One hand weaving over the strings, he glances up at me through his lashes. "I've only heard rumors, heard things one angel thought he'd seen, something a kitchen staff member witness, a snippet of a conversation riding on the ears of a slut. It's only up to the clever monkey to piece it all together, to create a masterpiece with the puzzle."

"How many times have you manipulated us into giving you an answer?" demands Raffe, the brutal intelligence of a warrior chiseling his face into dark, stony rage.

Hugo's eyes roll up to the ceiling, mouthing numbers. The clever dance of the flecks in his irises displays his inner emotion. "Not that many. There's not much I care to know from you two, honestly. The fewer people that are aware of Penryn's plan to save the world, the better. The fewer people around that are connected to Raffe's inexplicable wing dilemma, the better. But I do love myself a good case of gossip." He winks, lashes brushing his cheekbones. "And I have not thus far been disappointed."

* * *

**Bum bum bum. **

**First thing's first: I'm going on a camping trip this weekend, which means I won't be uploading any chapters, or even working on writing. It also means that I've had limited time to polish this chapter – there may be a few errors or odd sentences flows, but I wanted to get it out before I left. I love getting your reviews, so, if anything, only write more of them while I'm gone! Even if I don't respond in any way, I do read them and appreciate each one. **

**POLL: Bryon has been mentioned sparingly… but he's about to saunter up to bat. Thoughts?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

"What are you still doing up?" I whisper over the hissing snarls of the dying fire. Clutching one of Scruffy's smelly blankets tighter around me as barrier against the chill of night, I inch closer to the dying embers.

Hugo's eyes drift up to mine, gradually leaving the sketchpad he cradles on one knee. The metallic rasp of pencil lead over the paper pauses. Tilting his head to one side, he scoots over, allowing room on the log.

"Scruffy's still gone, which means we have no sentry," he whispers. "I heard you writhing over there. It sounded like a nightmare. If you're up, you might as well keep warm." He pats the extra space on his seat.

Despite his invitation, I sit down on the log opposite Hugo. Initially, he watches me, opalescent eyes dancing with the gentle flicker of the flame. But then his dark head bows back over his sketchpad once more, the whisper of a pencil echoing through the darkness of the night.

"What are you drawing?" I wonder, yawning monstrously. "And can you even see this late at night?"

"Not really," he answers truthfully, chuckle hidden in the words. "But I love to draw, all the same. It'll look interesting in the morning, but late-night thoughts are the best thoughts, right?"

"Mmm," I mumble, watching an ember drift from the fire and into the starry night's arms. "I'm not thinking about much at the moment."

"Well, that's because you don't know how to think. Embrace the fatigue. Allow it to sharpen your tongue and clear your mind. You are one with the droopy eyes."

After a moment of silence, I sigh in surrender. "You're bizarre."

"Is that what it is?" Hugo sobers abruptly, the pencil sagging in his hands, eyes staring imploringly into mine. "Why I'm so unlikeable, I mean?"

"What?" The misery gnawing at his coppery eyes has me on guard; it doesn't take an expert to spot someone under the influence of depression, but it does take one to deal with one gently – my own experience with the mental illness has sharpened my finesse on the subject. "Why?"

Hugo chuckles darkly, balancing the sketchpad on the log beside him. Leaning forward, he draws closer to the flame's heat. "Don't coddle me. I know I'm not liked, and I know I'll never be. It's what'll make me such a good martyr. I just… want to know what it is."

"You are liked," I scoff bluntly, looking deep into the heart of the flame as I grope for words. "I don't particularly trust you, but you have the makes of an ally."

"Funny, it's usually the other way around," Hugo mutters with a somber smirk.

"Ogden sticks around you. I mean, call me crazy, but he seems to like you a lot."

"We have been through a lot together, yes," Hugo acknowledges. His tone is warm upon regarding the older companion. "He and Bryon have been together since they were infants, but with all his traveling, Bryon is best alone. I like companionship, even from a mute."

"And Scruffy definitely loves you. All you need is a giant wolf sticking around to show that you've got likeable qualities."

"You're right." He brightens considerably at the mention of his pet, eyes softening like butter melting before the fire. "It's always been Scruffy and I, hasn't it? Me and Scruffy against the world. The day he bites the dust is the day I follow."

"That's the spirit," I cajole, smiling with relief.

"So, my only true friends are a mute and a giant friendly wolf, and my boyfriend is a demon from Hell." Hugo purses his lips and cocks his head. "Not exactly a confidence builder, but you've got to start somewhere, right?"

"Wait… what?"

"Oh, yeah, forgot to mention that." A grin as wide as the sea breaks out over his face. Adoration would be a simplification of the tender emotions shimmering in Hugo's reddish eyes. "My boyfriend is a fallen angel. He fell for me. And for his homosexuality. For his homosexuality, towards me. I love him more than life itself."

"Ah." Awkwardly, my gaze roams to the dancing tendrils of fire. "Oh."

Hugo's laugh is strange, with a deep tone I've never heard from him before. "I just get sketchier and sketchier to you, don't I?" he chuckles, eyebrows cocked. "Some people say that there's such thing as good and evil in this world. But I don't think so. There's never all good in a creature that walks in light, and never all bad in those that dwell below. I don't bother with all those preliminaries of good and bad. I'm a wild card. Not the sun or the moon, but the light in between. I've got my own agenda, and I play by my own rules. Might as well let them know right-up. But here's the question." With a smile, he rises from his seat on the log. "Does that make me good or does that make me evil?"

I watch with a deadpanned expression as he walks off, the sharp contours of his back fading into the darkness of the surrounding woods. Just before he completely disappears from my line of sight, Hugo pauses, cinnamon hair turned silver by the moon's eye hanging above the trees.

"I take back what I said about nobody being evil, or nobody being good," he calls softly. "Bryon is most definitely a sheep in wolf's clothing. And your mother's demon scares the hell out of me."

Then, like a ghost, Hugo is gone.

* * *

"It's strange," says Raffe from behind me, his voice banishing the serene silence and sending chills up my back. "Yesterday, you could do nothing but speak, and now you're quiet and submissive."

"Not submissive," corrects Hugo distractedly, fingers lazily tapping over the touchpad of his sleek silver laptop. "Merely focused. And cozy."

"You have been awfully quiet," I observe innocuously. "I still don't really understand how you're getting Wi-Fi on that thing."

"I've already told you." Hugo rolls his eyes. "This laptop's connected to a satellite, so I get it anywhere, and it's untouched by the apocalypse. No matter how much those angelic bastards pretend to be immortal, space is lethal to everybody. My Wi-Fi is strong no matter where I wander."

"What are you even doing?" I inquire, gently nudging Paige along. "Checking your emails? Who is still sending emails?"

"The amount of spam has doubled, actually," reports Hugo mischievously, eyes twinkling gregariously. "Except now all the titles are: Angels In Your Town? Get Magic Amulets Today! Hilarious. Hey, someone might be making some sort of a profit off this. I hear Verizon's still in business, like some sort of crazy product placement ad…"

Hugo rocks to the beat of Scruffy's rhythmic footsteps, his cradle in the bags of supplies and various knick-knacks almost a nest. His eyes are opposite of Scruffy's; it's a defense system, with the wolf facing one direction and the boy facing the other. Scruffy's neck is arched to create a pleasant seat for Hugo, and Hugo himself is massaging up and down Scruffy's sore muscles with his spare hand in payment. Before he'd been on the computer, he'd been sketching tranquilly, and before that, he'd been strumming experimentally on his guitar.

"What are you doing on there?" interrogates Raffe, tone sharp as a blade.

"Well, you're a nosey pigeon-bat, aren't you? If you must know, I'm looking into your own holy Messenger and his sudden death. New evidence has come to light, and so they came to me."

"What evidence?" Raffe's eyes narrow, the blue ice in buried there honing. "And why is a monkey interested in that?"

"Secret." Hugo taps his finger to his lips. "That's the thing, because, although this new evidence cleared the She Wolf off the list of suspects as well as Lion, you still have a position there. There's not a whole lot of reasons that I know of – this apocalypse is obviously not helping you any – but there's a lot of evidence that could mean that it was another angel that managed to get ahold of a gun. An angel that would be willing to endanger its sacred hands by touching that extremely effective weapon is hard to find. Hard, but not impossible. So, they turned to me."

"An angel?" The steel in my voice shields bitter rage. "You're telling me this was even started by an angel?"

"Maybe." Hugo pinches at his lip. "I honestly was leaning towards something that had to do with She Wolf. But now, I'm sure it's not her or her husband. I don't know, I'll have to research it more."

"Why are you in charge of this?" inquires Raffe with a divisive expression as cold as the winter wind. "Why not some other wiser monkey?"

"Because I'm intelligent. I'm clever. Sherlock Holmes was derived from all this, baby. Because I know how people think. How to get a person to admit something. How to know when someone is lying, and when someone knows something that I don't. I can successfully cross your name off my list now."

Raffe's expression blackens. The taut muscles in his shoulders tighten further, his jaw clenching. Blue murder dances in his eyes. If Pooky Bear had still been hanging at his hip, I daresay Hugo wouldn't be at his leisure for very long. As it is, his veined hands curl into fists. Ogden's allaying glance back at me does little to calm Raffe. With each step, Paige's teeth gnash together louder. The metallic clicking of teeth grates on my nerves.

"So," I attempt, trying at a new subject, "when are we going to meet this Bryon?"

"Well," judges Hugo with an affable smile in my direction, "he disclosed his location in the email with all the information about Gabriel, so I can gauge that we'll see him by the time the sun sets tonight. It's about… four o'clock, is it, Ogden? Ogden says yep. Probably soon, then, assuming he doesn't run into any of Raffe's hellions again."

Raffe's lips twist into a snarl, teeth bared. To assuage the situation once more, I hurriedly question, "Any tips about interacting with Bryon? Personality pointers?"

Hugo's brow scrunches. He tips his head up to the sun dappling through the canopy, watching the trees for a few moments. "Nothing that I really can think of," he decides. "I mean, he's badass to the core, but you wouldn't guess that at first glance. I've seen him get speared in the chest with an angel sword before and keep fighting. Almost cost him his life. Mostly, he's pleasant and polite. He used to absolutely loath you, Raphael – can I call you Raffe, or is that just a Penryn thing?"

He crosses his arms over his chest, shooting Hugo a glare that could crumble civilizations.

"Okay then, you're Pigeon-Bat now and forever. Anyway, he used to hate Pigeon-Bat growing up, apparently. I mean, he had a rough childhood. Always angry, they say, looking for someone to blame. But he's different now. He was reunited with his father, and… he realized that life was beautiful again, I guess. Seriously, he's a gentle giant. I've seen him tame Nephilim in one night. It's crazy, the effect he has. I've only seen him truly angry a few times... it's pretty impressive."

Ogden grunts. Hugo twists awkwardly around in his nest, facing Ogden quizzically. The old man releases a cacophony of clashing notes, uniting his hands in the legendary choir pose.

Hugo slaps his forehead, collapsing back onto Scruffy. "How could I forget? He's got the most beautiful voice ever. Like, talking, it's like chords on the piano and a hum of the cello and the rumble of drums. But when he sings…" Hugo rests head against Scruffy's neck and whistles. "He's got a human sounding singing voice, if you know what I mean. Sharp as a razor and deep, oh so deep. Lovely voice."

Raffe's tone is smug, acutely accompanying his algid grin. "A human's voice is meek compared to the voice of any angel."

"No, it isn't," disagrees Hugo with a roll of his eyes. "No offense, Pigeon-Bat, but you angels pretty much sound the same singing, except for pitch differences. Humans have a unique voice. No one sounds quite the same. And, if you must know, Bryon's not human."

Ogden nods in conformation. With a smile, he tilts his head towards Hugo, refocusing my attention.

"Of course, you'll rarely get him to sing anything but the Spirit soundtrack," Hugo continues, eyes sparkling. "You know, Spirit: Stallion of the Cima – Cina – oh, screw it. Stallion of the Cinnamon for all I care. Ever listened to it?" A queer glaze frosts his coppery eyes, and, cocking his head, he watches Paige for a few steps. "Anyway, that was back when he was basically THE children entertainment industry and had his fingers in all those pies. Now he just listens to the music. Knows everything by heart."

His words are greeted with my frown. "I think I've watched that before," I acknowledge after a second's pause. "My mom bought it as soon as it came out, I think. She would hum it all to herself as she worked around the house."

Hugo nods. "Catchy music. He wrote most of it, despite what that 'Hans Zimmer' will have you thinking. It's been around for centuries, pretty much – he just turned it into a soundtrack and got people to sing it and stuff. Great movie, too. Back in the Golden Age, you know?"

"I suppose. The Evil Queens back then were definitely much more interesting."

Raffe's lips quirk slightly. His wings perk within a stride.

"Inside joke," guesses Hugo, sighing melodramatically. Rolling back against Scruffy, he positions the laptop once more and focuses on the glowing screen. "Right, well, I'll leave you to it."

The wind whips through the woods, toying with my hair and whispering benignly in my ears. Sharp and woody, the scent of the pine forest fills my nostrils, a tangent fragrance softened by the tender tickle of wildflowers. To miss the opportunity would be unwise – instead, I sniff deeply, closing my eyes to relish the scent. It leaves the air in its wake stagnant, with just an echo of the whispered laughter it provided whistling in my ear.

"This place is magical," I breathe to myself, opening my eyes.

"You're not wrong," murmurs Raffe, neck craned to gaze up at the sky. His blue eyes shift colors beneath the soft golden sunlight, mottling in navy and cornflower.

With a surreptitious glance towards Hugo, who only grows further from us, I turn to Raffe. "I'm not sure how long it's going to be until Paige needs to eat again," I whisper, shoving as much concern as possible into the soft phrase.

Blue ice burns. The full power of Raffe's gaze smashes into me. "How long did she last without food last time?" The soft husk he speaks with is difficult to pick up above the hollow howl of the wind through the trees.

A shrug is all I can answer with. "Not long. And then she nearly ripped a person to bits."

Raffe lets out a long breath, raking a hand through his black hair. It is impossible not to notice the way he dishevels the ebony locks, nor to long to correct their position and smooth his hair back into place. "I'm not sure what we'll do. For the time being, let's focus on getting out of this forest. If worst should come to worst, we can always point her in the direction of that insufferable monkey."

"He's not a monkey," I mutter.

Raffe bites his lip irascibly, eyes dubious. But before a word of scoff can escape him, Hugo dismounts Scruffy. My gaze is already drawn before his finger lands lightly upon his pink lips, before he cautions us to the ground. Ogden is already crouching, gesturing ahead of him in explanation. A thunder of first fear then anger rumbles over me as I crouch, squinting to catch a glimpse of what had caught their attention. Scruffy stalks off, ears bent.

Hugo's lips are practically at my ear. "Bryon and I have this thing going where we try to sneak up on one another. Ogden's just spotted him. Be extremely quiet, please. You too, Pigeon-Bat. He's up by that stream over there, in the bank, washing his face. Back to us. Too good an opportunity to miss."

I sigh through the nose, but my gaze still roams the brush. A distant thunder of water smashing mercilessly against stone roars to life with my awareness. I can see the waterfall now that I know what to look for – diamond water spilling over rocks, frothing at the air and spitting. I assume the creek passes the trail ahead. Though I may lean and squint, I can't see beyond a few meters before the trail fades into brush.

Ogden creeps into the bushes, snagging Paige's hand and gently tugging her along with him, but quickly ushers Raffe and I after Hugo. Beside me, Raffe is silent, and ahead of me, Hugo is a ghost. My only consolation is that this area is primarily blanketed with pine needles to muffle the thud of my footsteps. Curiosity mounts as we slink around thornbushes and the stream comes into view.

Diaphanous sunlight filters through, brighter over the waters than in most areas. My eyes widen at the sight of a shirtless male bent over the serene waters, his broad back carved by muscles and tanned into a golden brown. Though I cannot see his face, I hear the tinkle of water as he washes his arms and know the balanced grace he holds himself with, even bent over the stream. A long, wooden staff without any decoration sits on the bank beside him, as well as what appears to be a long cloak and a shirt.

At the sight of him, Pooky Bear itches with rage. Sharp, painful tingles run up and down my arm until I release her hilt, breaking our connection, and let her swing freely at my hip. I cast a queer glance in the sword's direction. Her anger had been flavored with spiteful recognition.

Hugo signals us to pause. I crouch at the edge of a bush. Raffe shadows him a few more steps than I, eventually coming to a halt at the base of a tree. Hugo creeps onward like a cat on the hunt.

When mere feet separate Hugo from the man, he lifts his head, spilling water back into the creek.

A voice like a thousand church bells ringing in unison calls, "If it hadn't been for Scruffy, you probably would've won this round."

Hugo launches into a colorful string of curses. "Where is that lousy mutt?" he snarls, rising from his crouch moodily and signaling us up.

"Down the stream a bit, playing in the rapids. You might want to go salvage your packs before it's all washed away." His melodic voice sends a shiver down my back – there was no poetry in Hugo's description, only cold, hard truth. The chords are warm and inviting, laughter hidden in each word.

Hugo sighs. "And I thought for sure…"

"You did almost have me." The man pushes up from the riverbed, rising to an intimidating height. His powerful shoulders square, the trenches and ridges of profound muscle mass rippling. Towering over Hugo, he turns, allowing me a full view of the giant for the first time. "Who are your friends, Hugo? Oh – Raphael! It's been a long time! And you must be Ms. Young! Hmm. I wish I was wearing something a little more presentable… but then again, I wouldn't be nearly as handsome with a shirt on, would I?"

My eyes grow round at the sight of him. "Are you Bryon?" I whisper.

The man is tall, his height even greater than that of Raffe's. His body is broad and muscled, everything proud and firm. His six-pack is intact, accompanies by firm pecs, swollen biceps, a sloping V shape, and prominent neck bones. Unlike Raffe's Adonis-like beauty, there is nothing supernaturally godlike about his handsome face. Godlike in a human perspective he is, though. Instead of angelic, he reminds me more of a rough woodsman beauty – tough, sharp, and strong. His dark eyes shimmer in the sunlight. His skin is bronze with a tan. The remnants of a beard speckle his chin and neck, and dark, chocolaty brown hair hangs around his face. His smile is gentle, soft as silk – welcoming, friendly. Though not outrageously young, the man holds an older note about him, his eyes much older and wiser than ones that belong to someone in their lower thirties.

"I'm Bryon, yes," he answers. "Has Hugo already spilled every trivia fact there is to know about me, or has he left out one or two?"

As Bryon turns to face Hugo, the light trickling down from between the trees casts over his face, beaming into his eyes. And, in that slight second, they gleam. Not sparkle or glitter as a normal man's eyes would do, but _gleam_. It is as if the two dark irises had been infused with metallic bronze, only visible in the bright light – now, though, that he is in the sun, I can still see a hint of the bronze, coiling around his pupils.

"I am sorry that I happened to notice Scruffy," he apologizes, smile fading at the sight of Hugo's grumpiness. "Your skill is quite extraordinary. Much better than I ever did, even when I was the correct size to be snooping about."

"Oh, yeah." Hugo beams at Bryon broadly. "That's right. You used to be a midget."

"Not even up to my father's knee," Bryon chuckles. He shakes his head, eyes glinting each time the sunlight is strong. "The world was so massive back then. It still is, but less so, if you understand my meaning." His gaze turns back to me, apparently now noticing my unceasing gawk of shock. "I'm sorry, I'm being rude," he apologizes candidly. "Ms. Young, is something wrong? Come out, into the light. I don't bite. I might nibble a little, but I promise, no biting." He smiles warmly with pearly white teeth. "If there is something wrong, let me know, and I'll bash its head in."

"She's fine," Raffe snaps, stalking up to Bryon with a few testy glares my direction. His sulky voice jars me back to reality, causing my eyes to clash against his. Guilt tangles my stomach upon realizing that he's probably been watching me gawp open-mouth at Bryon.

"Ah, Wrath of God." Respect constructs behind those bronze eyes, despite his teasing tone. Bryon bows crisply. "Many apologies that you caught me without a shirt. You angels are awfully picky about silly things like being out-muscled."

"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched," mutters Raffe darkly. His critical gaze sweeps up and down Bryon. "Where are your supplies? Your weapons? Is this all you carry?"

Bryon shrugs, his amiable behavior still not faltering. "That staff is the closest thing I ever need come to a weapon. It's been my trusty companion these long years. I always have a way of finding food, so it's never been much of an issue."

"Everyone needs supplies," I decide, rising from my crouch at long last. Banishing the heated blush from my cheeks, I join the giants in their discussion. "It doesn't make much sense that you need none."

Bryon tips his head to me respectfully. "I don't eat as often as humans or angels do. Don't need as many calories. So it doesn't make much sense to lug food around."

"What are you if you're not a human?" My eyes narrow skeptically.

An embarrassed smile plays over Bryon's face, but I am more distracted by something behind him. As Bryon explains ("Sorry, but that's just the slightest bit private, something that I don't really enjoy spreading around much.") Ogden creeps up from the bushes on the opposite side of the creek. I try to make my observations stealthy, keeping my gaze locked on Bryon. But, as he skips over the stream, I can't help but smirking.

With a frown, Bryon trails off. He tilts his head to one side, puzzled. "What are you laughing –" He cuts off with a strangled mewl, jumping away from the place where Ogden had gingerly tapped him. Backing up against the stream, he scowls at Ogden.

"Oh, you tricky thing," Bryon growls, shaking a finger at the delighted Ogden. "Was this the plan all along?"

"Yup," accedes Hugo with a beatific grin. "I got you! Oh, God, your face… I've never heard you make a noise like that before, most of the time you've got this voice that can melt butter, and then all of the sudden: Cat Mode. But the point of the matter is that I'm winning. I beat you."

Bryon laughs, the sound rolling like a peal of thunder. "That you did, my friend. That you – Ow!" His voice is abruptly sharp, and the exclamation is swiftly tailed by a demonic growl. Wincing and hissing softly beneath his breath, Bryon turns on heel. My gasp of horror is the loudest sound aside from Paige's vicious snarls as she gulps down the strip of dripping flesh.

A raw red cut slices into Bryon's back, dribbling crimson blood like a hellborn waterfall. The wound is deep and incisive, as if someone had taken a cookie-cutter mold and sank it into his flesh. Despite the large hunk of flesh she'd removed from Bryon's back, Paige still growls, her starving eyes darting around feverishly. Gnashing together metallically, Paige gulps down the meat without a second thought.

"How rude of me." Bryon kneels down, coming face to face with my demonic sister. His height bows before the girl, large muscles seemingly relaxing. The power in his voice is subdued, more a lullaby than a madrigal. "I never said hello to you, did I? Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Bryon, quite possibly the coolest fellow you'll ever meet. What's your name?"

Paige blinks after swallowing down Bryon's flesh, snarl catching in her throat. Her eyes grow round as mine did, but for a different reason entirely. She touches a finger to her lips brokenly, feeling the crimson blood there. A high cry of mourning escapes her lips, and horrified tears well in her eyes.

Raffe is silent beside me, and Ogden watches with concern. Hugo throws an arm out to pause my protective pounce towards her. "Let him have his way with her," he whispers in my ear. "You'll be surprised."

"Don't cry," whispers Bryon, ignoring both me and Hugo. His voice is thick, as if, he, too, is about to burst into tears at the sight of my little sister. He lifts a hand as an offering towards her, palm open and fingers outstretched. "Please, I just want to know your name."

My baby girl whimpers out something strangled and weak, sounding more like a sob than a word.

"Paige?" Bryon's voice takes on a marveling note. "I do love that name. My niece's name is Paige. She has the most beautiful eyes. Your eyes, too, are beautiful. Can I see them?"

Slowly, Paige's gaze slides up to meet his. Her blood-red lips quiver, but she no longer seems quite as unstable – instead, there is an avid curiosity in this creature that is treating her civilly and attempting to carry out a conversation with a beast as wretched as her.

"Ah, yes." Bryon smiles. "Beautiful. I bet you could be a model, if you'd like. I know some people. Are you into that kind of stuff? Modelling, I mean?"

Paige hurriedly shakes her head, whipping it to and fro. A ruby droplet cascades down her chin, landing in the diamond stream. Rolling her eyes, she shrugs, raising both hands to the sky in a gesture of exasperation.

"I'll let you in on a secret" – Bryon leans closer, his voice lowering – "I don't really like it, either. But nobody can know that, it might hurt their feelings. I can trust you, right?"

After leaning closer to him as well, Paige recoils, alarm flashing in her eyes. Though initially disturbed by the thought of keeping anything from anyone, Paige mouths the word _yes_, sneaking furtive glances towards me. Stiffly, she waves a hand towards the audience. Upon her prompting, Bryon sneaks a glance behind him, winking once for our eyes solely.

"They can't know," he whispers, inching closer to her. "Do you think they heard me? They might tell everyone! Ogden in particular is pretty sketchy, you never know what he might do… and Raphael's been giving me the stinkeye for quite some time now…"

"That only causes him to glare harder," advises Hugo in a soft tone of voice. Whittling away at a piece of wood with a long knife, he jerks a thumb towards Raffe. "See?"

Indeed, Raffe's glower is a sight to behold.

"Well, there goes my secret." Bryon lifts his hands in surrender, sticking out his lower lip. "Poof. Come on, Penryn, couldn't you have kept a secret?" Bryon sighs in exasperation, and then laughs heartily as Paige waggles her finger at me. "But you know what? I'm hungry. Is anyone else hungry?"

Hugo nods vigorously, patting his stomach. Ogden burps, patting his potbelly and smiling. My initial surprise is quickly replaced by a smile and a nod. Paige lifts her hand in compliment, vying for Bryon's attention.

"Yeah, I thought you might be hungry. Do you want to come eat something with me? I know that normal stuff may taste awful" – he wrinkles his nose – "but I know what doesn't. Will you, Paige Young, accompany me to go find something absolutely positively exquisite to eat?" He offers her his hand, extending it with a friendly smile.

Paige doesn't pause. Her fingers slip through his, weaving together. Tentatively, she smiles weakly at him, before the slight expression is lost to her pain. Bryon smiles back down at her, bronze eyes shining as bright as suns. Like a thick tower being built brick by brick to the sky, Bryon unfolds slowly. After a few words, he slings the shirt and the long brown cloak over a shoulder and grasps his polished wooden staff in his free hand.

Together, the little she-demon and the gentle giant lumber off. Bryon speaking patiently to Paige can be heard as the two go deeper into the woods. Glancing once behind him, Bryon signals us to move onward with a wave of his staff.

"See what I mean?" Hugo grins devilishly at me as he hops over the stream, striking a boot against the crystalline water. The droplets splatter against the opposite creekbed. "He's awesome."

"I don't know," mutters Raffe skeptically as he crosses the stream with a single stride. "Something about him seems awfully familiar…"

"What will he feed her?" I question intensely, following Hugo closely, my feet a half-step behind his. My gaze is acutely trained on Bryon's back, and the rapidly healing cut my sister had made. "He's not going to give her human flesh, is he?"

"No way." Hugo's eyes widen, mouth twisting with disgust. The appalled tone is his voice is fletched with an offended quality. "That's _nasty_. Nah, he'll give her some veal or something that tastes a bit like human flesh. If she needs more prompting, he'll coax her with a bit of his own blood, because he heals so frigging fast. Then, slowly, he'll wean her off of that and onto something that's easier to find, like steak. Then he'll go to meat, _period_, and then… well, you'll have to see. Bryon's done this before, you know."

"I don't trust him." Raffe's voice is certain on the subject, his mouth straight and his face hostile.

Hugo waves a hand dismissively, coppery eyes alit with dancing flames of dislike. "I don't trust _you_. Now, let's get moving, before they run off without us, eh?"

"Hear that, Paige?" cries Bryon from ahead. "I'm mildly certain it was a challenge!"

* * *

**I really don't have any comment. **

**POLL: Bryon. Thoughts…?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

"He's always angry," critiques Bryon with a dubious expression, glancing towards Hugo. Long lashes bat as his cheeks with each blink. "You have Raphael's face down, but he always seems ticked at something, no matter which angle you draw him from. A face is supposed to display multiple expressions, not just one. Ameliorate that."

"You've been drawing pictures of me?" Raffe asks, voice deadly quiet and cold as ice.

Ignoring him, Hugo waves his hand around in the air. "Well, that's all that bastard ever looks like! Even when he's resting, he looks pissed at everyone and everything. If I had a word to describe Pigeon-Bat, it'd be pissed. There is this one. I caught him staring at Penryn once."

He slips a finger into the sketchbook, flipping to the right page. Proudly smoothing it out, Hugo gestures confidently towards the sketch, disregarding both Raffe's scowl and my scarlet blush.

Staring with wide bronze eyes and fanning lashes, Bryon slowly brings his hand up for a facepalm. In a quiet whisper that sounds as if he is stifling laughter, Bryon says, "He's angry in this picture, too."

"No," corrects Hugo feistily. Jabbing a finger at the picture of Raffe, he glances testily up at Bryon. "Look at his eyes! The eyes are the window to the soul! They're soft, soft and gentle. I used a soft-tipped pencil."

Bryon's deep sigh is like two heavy stones slowly rumbling against one another. "So, say Raphael only shows emotions through the eyes, which is not far from the truth. All of your other pictures have cold, angry eyes. There is no intelligence or thoughts behind the expression."

"I drew what I saw."

Bat wings propelling him off the ground, Raffe shoots from his rest, rising to his full height. In any other company, it would be a mighty sight – the powerful archangel splaying his demonic wings wide, rage sharpening his features and balling his fist, striding with purpose and lethal focus. His blue eyes are two sheets of ice. The leathery blanket of black frames his caramel skin, like the velvet cape in a regal king's uniform.

But here, amidst the old man's calloused hands and the battle-weary figure he walks with, amidst the massive wolf with slender legs and a long red tongue drooping through ivory fangs, amidst the company of the madman that tinkers with gears and oil day in and day out, amidst the company of giant with the eyes of a man that has seen tragedy and love and heartbreak and death a million times over, Raffe seems small. And, in his approach, the others seem to know that – here, together, it is their domain.

"Excuse me?" Despite the fractured ice in Raffe's eyes and poison in his voice, I still fear for him as Bryon pivots to regard him.

"Peace, angel," Bryon soothes. The hand holding his long wooden staff readjusts its grip. His face is now angled away from mine, so I do not know what his face reads, but Raffe's gaze is fixed on Bryon's. "His drawing and way of seeing you are both incorrect. But you can hardly blame the boy. He has sparingly been forgiven; those monsters that do not are dealt with oftentimes, but it would be your first step towards redemption."

"Redemption?" The skepticism Raffe speaks with is acid. "What do I need to redeem?"

"Your honor." Bryon rifles through the last pictures, either unknowingly or deliberately undermining the threat Raffe poses by refusing to look him in the eyes. He releases the staff, leaning it against the crook of his arm to use two hands on the sketchbook. "You may have a nice spot in the angelic ranks, but there are more than angels in this world. You've been a nuisance for centuries – if you're going to regain your placement among the other archangels, you must regain the good opinion of those who have long hated you."

"You're supposed to take me to someone that can fix my wings," Raffe snarls, stepping forward into Bryon's personal space, breaking the giant's calm façade, "not become my political director."

With deep, calming breaths, Bryon turns to Raffe, eyes hard. With exaggerated serenity, Bryon closes the sketchbook and hands it to Hugo. Hugo clutches it tight to his chest and retreats, getting out of the bomb radius.

"The thing is, Raffe," Bryon explains with a voice that is too neutral, "I am one of the other beings whose respect you need to gain. And so are the only beings that will stitch your wings back on. Raffe, we do not have to be on different sides of this war. I stand with the humans. The humans stand against the angels. That does not mean that we cannot forge a treaty, with you, Messenger, as head of the hydra. However, if it is clear that you will not cooperate, I will have no choice to treat you like an enemy."

"Raffe." My voice is quiet. "We don't know how many people may be in these woods that we don't know about. Please, be civil." I glance sharply at my sister. "If it comes to violence, I'm not sure things will work out nicely."

Bryon's eyes soften. "It'd never come to violence," he denies, waving a hand dismissively. "No one in this forest attacks unless attacked first. It's a peaceful land. The home of the last Aurumn Stags. Maybe we'll see some, they're quite beautiful creatures. No one would dare risk their safety, no one under my command."

"And we are to just trust you?" Raffe questions bitterly.

"It would seem so." Bryon tilts his head to one side. "I think of you with no kindness, Raphael, but I am willing to believe that anyone can change. Others will not be so lenient. And, even if you choose to make an enemy out of me, there are others you must impress in order to maintain the angelic race as a whole."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that ever since the angels dethroned the Seraphim, ire and hatred has flared to life in the hearts of many, many creatures. You are the only real race that seems to hate humanity – we have all adored their company these long years. I, myself, love watching a child grow up to become something beautiful. It has taken them centuries to come to where they are now, with the loving care of many a race. We were the ones that cushioned their falls and clapped in awe as they amazed us all. It has irked many that you have shattered them."

"Any race that harbors little monkeys cannot be sanitary."

Bryon studies Raffe indignantly. "How can you be so blind?" he cries. "That mind of yours, so bright, and yet so stupid! Why must you destroy everything that displeases you?"

"The humans shot down Gabriel," Raffe growls.

"The humans were scared. It was a perfect ploy for someone else to man the gun. No one liked that dictator – he is even more despised than you. I suppose the shooter could not have formulated the primitive response they received from the angels."

"Why do you defend these filthy monkeys?" Raffe demands. "You may have the Prom King look, but it's not all style. Anyone smart that's been around for a while can tell you that."

"How can you not defend those 'filthy monkeys'?" Bryon stabs his staff into the skin of the earth, his anger slowly emerging, visible in the bronze eyes that glint like coins. "You angels! You think yourself superior because you have muscle, because you have brawn. You are nothing but warriors, and that does not make you superior. Because even the most beautiful, the sharpest, the most medaled warrior is nothing but a warrior. There is nothing to brag about there.

"But humanity!" Bryon's eyes shine. "Beautiful, silly, goofy, insignificant humanity! Even the smallest person, the smallest 'monkey' as you so discriminately title them, is beautiful! For a warrior is cursed to only destroy and take orders to destroy more. But a human can _create_. They can sing notes of beauty with their lips, composing it as they go along. Even those not gifted with a lovely voice, they can create a song! Those beautiful notes, gently played on an instrument, a beautiful work of art in itself. The crafters can sculpt and build and mold the world to their hands, to their tiny little hands. And the artists, the artists can see what the crafters have built, and they can paint it! They can combine pigments and dyes and – lord, I don't even know, and copy an image onto a blank page. Is that not beautiful? And then, Raphael, the author, the writer, the thinker, gazes upon such beauty and thinks that they must capture the image on paper and in odorous ink, they must write it down so others will understand the exact measure of their thoughts and senses. Think of it, Raphael! How can you disrespect such gorgeous nature? How can you destroy such a culture?"

"You neglect to mention those that sit in their homes without a thought of beauty," Raffe points out. "You neglect to mention their beautiful crimes and their dirty habits. The way they are driven blindly by instinct. The way one man rises and another man falls."

"Does every species not have its bad points?" sighs Bryon. "Must you see corruption everywhere except within?"

"One can tolerate a world of demons for the sake of an angel," whispers Hugo loudly, stroking Scruffy's ears.

"Do _not_ bring Doctor Who into this," mutters Bryon from the side of his mouth.

"Must you seek to find beauty where there is none?" challenges Raffe. "Must you seek to misunderstand something entirely in your chase for goodness? Because only a fool believes that the world is his friend."

_Do not insult the Dragon King's goodness, his willingness to find light in every soul._ A voice rattles in my brain, bringing explosive pain to my temples. Bryon lifts his head, Raffe does the same, as does Ogden. Scruffy remains oblivious, and Hugo winces slightly. Paige screams and doubles over. I clasp my hands to my temples, fuzzy eyesight fixing on a pure form slinking from the mottled woods. _He is the only reason you still tread upon this sacred ground, O Wrath of God. His words ring true. Your blood is a thirst of mine. To consider me pleased to have you here before me without injury or contusion is angering. The Dragon King is not my master – but I do as he advises. Do not make me break my word._

Shivering, I unfurl from the ball I'd rolled into. With a massive gasp for air, I fix my gaze on the shape that'd melted from the darkness of the tree's shadows.

A white wolf twice Scruffy's size watches me, two teardrop shaped wings folded tightly against its back. It's the color of freshly fallen snow, crisp and clean. It watches the scene a moment more before trotting back into the embrace of the shadows, snowy coat hidden by the blackness of the coming night.

"Jane," groans Hugo. "Scruffy, you retard, why didn't you warn me?"

Scruffy's mouth falls open and his tongue lolls out, his tail wagging in miscomprehension.

My world spins. I groan. A warm hand rests on my shoulder, two bright eyes piercing the swirling mass of beige and emerald. Gently, he shakes me shoulder, concern pinching his eyebrows together.

"Penryn?" Bryon presses. "Are you alright?"

"What the hell," I gasp, attempting to expand my muscles as best I can.

"Telepathy. You're doing surprisingly well. My first time and I couldn't speak for the rest of the day. But you are female, and that must be taken into account." Bryon leans down even further, scooping me up into his arms. "Paige, though, is taking it remarkably. She's just mildly dazed. You, however, should get to sleep. Your head will stop aching after relaxation." Then, in a loud, ordering voice, "Hugo! We're sleeping here tonight, prepare Penryn a bed."

With a slow, sweeping trod, Bryon steps forward, me cradled in his arms like a child. The inhale and exhale of his chest rocks my head, the rhythmic cycle setting a template for my own breathing. The unbearable spiral of colors makes my brain ache. In order to escape my demented vision, I close my eyes to crescents, only allowing myself to stare up at Bryon as he walks me across the clearing.

"Is she alright?" Raffe's concerned voice is not matched to a face, but lost somewhere in the swirl of colors. "Will the effects be long-lasting?"

"She may be a bit dizzy in the morning, but she has her mother's endurance," Bryon reassures. "Penryn will be fine, given a good night's rest. HUGO! HURRY UP WITH THAT!"

"Ogden!" Hugo yelps, voice muffled. "Help, please!"

"Who was that bitch of a wolf?" Raffe snarls.

"Jane," answers Bryon. "Do us both a favor and _don't_. She knows how to properly kill an angel, and that would just make my job that much harder. If you want to be useful, scope our surroundings. Telepathy attracts all sorts of nasties. I can't hear anything, but a lot are silent killers."

"Who…" My voice falters.

"Penryn?" Bryon questions, his voice as caress.

"Who is the Dragon King?" I wonder, blinking once before sealing my eyes shut once more.

The vibrations of Bryon's hearty laughter itch over my skin. "'Dragon' is the codename given to me by those that feel codenames are necessary when no one really knows who I am, anyway. I am the Dragon King because I… am a king. That is my explanation for the nickname."

"You're a…" My breath fails me.

"Hush," Bryon scolds. "We'll talk in the morning." He bends down, slowly releasing me, letting my body droop over a familiar saddle blanket. Something silky and warm drapes over me, like a blanket that I'd never truly had before. I snuggle deep into its fold. Peeping one eye open, I watch as Bryon rises and pads off, not able to truly hear the glorious tones of his speech.

Before my eyes shut and my mind drifts off into the gentle embrace of sleep, I do, however, distinctively note that his cloak is missing, and that my achieved blanket is a warm brown color.

* * *

Hugo's pencil itches over the paper, gentle lines softening the hard gradient figures. His eyes narrow with concentration. Fingers quivering slightly with the tenacity of his focus, Hugo bows over the sketchpad, gently coloring in the last of the gears on the final diagram.

"What is that?" Bryon husks, collapsing on the log beside him.

Hugo tilts the sketchbook to provide him a better view. "I'm working on a new design for the copper wings. One freestanding. You know, you don't have to strap it to your arms."

Bryon's mouth quirks. "Well, that'll be useful for some people, for sure. I'm stuck in my ways, only my pair will do. By the way, did you fix them?"

"Yep," confirms Hugo with a nod of his head. "I got Ogden to shape you multiple extras, since that one goddamned feather won't stay on there."

"Ah." Bryon smiles. "When he's back from foraging, I'll be sure to thank him. So, how does this contraption thing work?"

"I'm not sure yet," mutters Hugo, taking the lead to the paper once more. "That's why I'm working on it."

* * *

Raffe's heat is scalding, and, for the second time in a matter of days, I find myself pinned against the mass of firm muscle. My vision no longer pitches and sways. Aside from a small throb in my head, I feel normal – normal, but with an excessive need to take a trip into the woods and alleviate myself.

To alert anyone else peacefully slumbering in the circle would be a mistake, one that would invite more criticism to Raffe. However, a way to squirm from his viselike embrace is hard to discover. Instead of brunt tactics, though, I aim for finesse.

Scruffy's pelt is stained silver by the nearly full moon watching overhead, a lonely eye in the sky, surrounded by a thousand winking stars. The wolf watches me with his red eyes, blinking once, before his gaze is caught by something in the distance. With a whuff of concern, he leaps from his position perched upon a fallen log and lopes into the forest like a shadow.

Dismissing the wolf's odd behavior, I lift the only hand not caught in Raffe's embrace. Gently, I drape it over his own, aligning each tendon. His breath stirs slightly, but not with the punctured rhythm of a man rising from sleep. Slowly, I rub circles over the back of his hand with two fingers, massaging his tense muscles calmingly. As the circles continue up his arms, Raffe relaxes – a heavy sigh escapes his lips near the elbow, and his body seems to unclench.

With exaggerated tenderness, I lift Raffe's heavy muscled arm, shuffling out from beneath it. Accidently, though, as I try to squirm from his grip, I jab an elbow into his gut. Raffe's breath jars, and his muscles tense once more.

"What are you doing?" Raffe's voice, though drugged by sleep, is skeptical and amused in one acidic concoction.

"Trying to not wake you up," I murmur back.

"Strange, people don't often stab other people in the gut when they're doing that."

"I did not stab you," I scoff, voice a whisper. "I was just testing to make sure that you… weren't dead."

"Oh? What are your results?"

"You're not."

"Medicine is definitely the right career choice, Dr. Young. We might not even have to follow these idiots, if you keep on unearthing these pearls of wisdom."

"Stop it."

"You stop stabbing me in the gut."

"I didn't stab you!"

"With an elbow like that? You might as well have taken my sword and impaled me. I'm still gasping for breath."

"Shut up, the two of you," Hugo growls from the opposite side of Raffe.

"Get off me," I order in a slightly softer tone of voice, stabbing my fingernails irritably into the soft arm still wrapped around my waist.

"Why should I?" Raffe hugs tighter, pulling me against him despite my daggerlike fingernails embedded deep into his skin. "Don't you want to be kept warm against the cold of the night?"

"I have to pee," I threaten. "You might want to let me go."

"Ah." Raffe's arm releases me immediately, his silken voice losing its velvety richness. "Couldn't have mentioned that a smidgen earlier?"

"Nah," I explain, rising first on all fours. "I was stabbing someone in the gut."

The world spins as I stand up. The midnight blue leaves and jet black tree trunks swirl and pitch, moon a smear on a canvas of dark, hypnotic colors. I stagger drunkenly, nearly tripping on the folds of the saddle blanket. My breathing is ragged, and sweat breaks out over my forehead.

"Penryn?" It's not Raffe's voice, but rather Bryon's. He slumbers on the opposite side of Ogden, bronze eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

"I'm okay," I mutter through gritted teeth. "If I scream, come running."

"Count on it," Raffe vows, propping himself up on one elbow.

"_Shut up!_" hisses Hugo grouchily, curling tighter in on himself and clasping his hands around his ears.

And so, with two pairs of eyes locked on my back, I stumble into the darkness of the woods. In all honestly, it isn't so bad – the shadows stretch long, and the moaning breeze through the trees send them dancing, but the cool air is blissful and the night sky is beautiful. It's like obsidian, studded with diamonds and one fat pearl. The leaves rustle beneath my feet with every heavy trod – though it may be in vain, I struggle to wander far enough from the camp to perhaps evade Raffe's sharp hearing. I don't think he'd make a potty-joke, per se, but each day, the quality of his humor deteriorates.

It isn't long before I'm completely lost.

Resisting the urge to yell complaints at the moon I'd earlier so ardently admired, I stumble about in circles, finding myself getting absolutely nowhere. I can find my way through a forest as well as the next girl in the broad daylight – that isn't hard in the slightest, what with all the landmarks – but with night's soft voice singing at the very edges of my imagination and the shadows dancing like demons, I simply cannot find my way back to anything that looks familiar.

The wind howls like the wolf I know it is, biting quickly through my shirt and nipping frigidly at my skin. Shivering, I bow beneath the clawing branches of a low-growing tree, leaning against its snagging bark. Simply what I need at the moment – to be teased upon how I'd lost myself in the woods going to the bathroom. With a dejected shiver, I curl up into a ball at the roots of the tree, groaning to myself.

A branch snaps in the quiet clarity, somewhere off to my left. My head snaps up, pulse spiking. Stumbling clumsily to my feet, I rest my hand on the hilt of Pooky Bear, drawing comfort from its usual spice of rage.

Another twig screeches, this time drawing my attention to a place I'd thought had been opposite of the other. Here, I see long, quivering fur shining silver. Here, I see two bright eyes. But here, I see a figure, one that looks just about the right size and shape to be someone I know.

I let out a long breath, releasing the hilt of Pooky Bear and rolling my eyes. "Scruffy, boy, you scared –"

A lion's roar is issued from the maw of the creature. It bares its ivory teeth to the sky, rearing on its hind legs. Two crimson red eyes gleam in the darkness. Taloned feet slam back to the ground. It lowers its head and charges, and I suddenly am struck with an alarming realization – this is not Scruffy. Scruffy is nowhere to be seen.

My hand closes around the hilt of Pooky Bear, yanking her free, but not before the beast has approached. I see its paw whirl about before I can lift her. Crying out, I skid through the leaves. Pain erupts in my left shoulder, ribbons of agony sliced into my flesh. Warm, wet liquid oozes around my shirt.

Still, I scrabble backwards desperately, leaning on the injured arm and lifting Pooky Bear up to the sky as a warning. Once, it swipes at the sword, but recoils and hisses as I catch the soft underside of its paw on the blade. Leaves I pass leave trails of fire over the wound. The monster seems reluctant to approach, hissing at the weapon glinting cruelly in the moon and favoring its injured foot. But my position and its rapid chase on every move I make is not admirable – its courage will reinstate, and it will find a way to bat Pooky Bear aside.

Gathering oxygen, I release one scream to the sky – a single high note, shrieking for reinforcements. I gasp for air, refilling my empty lungs. Still shuffling backwards, I slam against the trunk of a tree.

My plan to twist hastily around the tree proves redundant as another creature snarls and bounds from the woods, meeting the beast in combat. Both are standing on their back feet, front limbs interlocked. There they stand in bitter battle for mere seconds, both reared and teeth bared. Teeth glint and eyes gleam. Snarls and growls are audacious in the air. Casting their shadows upon me, the two creatures grapple, wrestling desperately.

My savior howls with pain as the beast buries its fangs into his shoulder. But the snarl he retaliates with is only fueled by increased hatred – the strength in my creature's limbs pushes the other one back. The beast does not go willingly, ripping a chunk of flesh from the creature's shoulder instead of unlocking its jaws. But the hostile beast crashes to the ground with a snap like a bone breaking. With a mewl of pain, the monster rises and bolts into the distance. My savior snarls out a warning, a threat that hangs in the air as the beast fades into the distance.

His reflective eyes immediately turn to me, concern and pain candidly mixed. My savior takes two steps forward, howls in pain, crosses the rest of the distance, and collapses. I whisper his name and string my hands through his hair. His head is heavy in my lap, dark blood seeping from the deep wound to spill over my jeans. Eyes fluttering, he groans weakly.

"Help!" I bellow, gently massaging his weary face. "He's hurt!"

A hiss of leaves accompanied by the snap of wind to my face passes, so quick I can barely focus on the sound. It rasps past, quick on the tail of the beast. Another hiss follows sharply, but this one does not rocket past. Raffe appears beside the tree I'd stopped at, his blue eyes wide.

My tears blur my vision as I smooth his hair from his eyes. "Please," I whisper. "Scruffy – he's hurt, bad. He fought it off. Please."

Scruffy peels one eye open and whines at his name, tail twitching in a frail imitation of a wag.

"Oh, Penryn," Raffe sighs, falling to his knees beside the wolf. "What the hell were you even doing this far out?"

"I got lost," I explain lamely. "Quick, we need to put pressure on the wound. Do you have anything?"

"Not here." Raffe shakes his head quickly. "I would send Bryon back, but he called dibs to go hunt down whatever was attacking you. Do you know –"

"Can you carry him down to the camp?"

Those blue eyes blink in the night. "It may be hard for you to believe, Penryn," Raffe admits in a soothing, apologetic tone, "but I'm not Superman. I can't do everything, especially not pick up that sack of meat."

"What do we do, then?" I whisper, stroking his cheek. "Scruffy, boy? You okay?" He lifts one eye and whines again. "You're Paige's buddy, you hear? She loves you like she's had a dog like you all her little life. And now you've just got to hold on, you here?"

Raffe is silent for a moment. "You're talking to a dog," he states flatly.

"Yeah, well, shut up," I snap irritably. "Everyone gets emotional when dogs die, but they really don't give shits about smartass angels."

"I never said he was going to die," Raffe assuages, "and I bet you the entire theater would sob over me. Penryn, we've got to see if Scruffy can walk if we're going to try and help him. It may hurt him."

"Better he hurt than die," I growl. The world rocks slightly as I, myself, rise. Blood quits welling beneath my jacket and instead trickles down my arm, along the soft skin of my ribs, following the curve of my fingers. Raffe's eyes widen.

"You're hurt," he breathes, rushing forward. "Where?"

"It's okay," I reassure, shooing him off. "Doesn't hurt that much."

"We should be putting pressure on _that_." Raffe's voice is adamant. "The wolf died to save you, it's a noble cause. Now, we need to get you –"

Scruffy cuts off his statement with a furious snarl, twisting his head around as Raffe starts out over the leaves. His gaze is fixed on Raffe, determination as clear as day across his face. It's almost as if I can see his thoughts, see his will to prove this imprudent archangel wrong. And he does. Paw by paw, he rises from the leaves, towering above with slender limbs and scruffy fur.

"C'mon, boy," I murmur. I extend one shaky hand towards him, a hand that he soon presses his muzzle to. "Let's go."

Raffe watches skeptically as I take my first wobbly step. Then, on my second, he swoops in and picks me up. Those two leathery wings wrap around his body, as if they're trying to shield me against the cold. I slam my fist into his chest.

"I can walk," I insist.

"No, you can't. You can _hobble_, if you'd like, but do you know how many women I sweep up into my arms?" His eyes are glued to my shoulder, the concern across his expression not matching his cocky tone.

"I guess it'd be hard to catch them, considering they're always screaming and fleeing. On a nature documentary, I watched that wolves always choose the weakest link. You think you can pull something suave because I can't run."

"Maybe the wolf felt sorry for the ickle sheep. Who's to say fate's not on your side for this one, hmm?"

"Because the wolf sure as hell is stupid if he thinks I'm an 'ickle sheep'. And slow down, Scruffy's hurt, too."

* * *

**I'm just looking at the word count right now. Before editing, it's 4,655 words. These are meant to be between 3-4,000 word chapters. This is just crazy. But… there's no way I could separate that into two chapters and maintain sanity. Update: now there's 5,053 words**

**POLL: Do you think Scruffy's hurt pretty bad or is he just milking the injury?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	9. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

"Shit." Hugo's voice skyrockets an octave. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, _fuck!_ Oh, hell, oh, hell, Scruffy, you fluffy bastard. That's definitely got a green tinge to it, doesn't it, buddy?"

"It could be the green glowstick you're using," sneers Raffe.

Hugo whips around, rising up from the ground. He flicks the glowstick behind the underbrush, sending it sailing in an arch. Jabbing a finger at Scruffy's raw flesh, he snarls, "Then look with your fucking angel eyes! Tell me his skin doesn't have a greenish tinge! Look me in the eye and say it!"

Raffe falls silent. Reacting to his master's stress, Scruffy groans, twitching slightly.

Hugo turns around, raking both bloody hands through his hair. Collapsing next to Scruffy again, his tortured gaze lands on mine, glinting only by the final embers of the fluttering fire. "Did you get a good look at the thing? Can you tell me what it looked like?"

Worried by his panicked tone, I shake my head swiftly. "I couldn't see much. But it looked like it had a human face. It was about Scruffy's size, maybe a bit bigger. Bulky. Mean talons. Its jaw unhinged or something, it just got really large when it leaned in to take that bite. Long, sabertooth teeth. Tufted tail, like a lion."

Hugo goes from frenzied to hysterical with fear, with this new information, going as rigid as a board, voice cracking. "And you're not feeling anything but the normal pain in your wound? No greenish tinge?"

I shake my head quickly, glancing up once at Raffe, who's holding a bunched up shirt to the slices in my shoulder. He, too, shakes his head. "No greenish tinge. She's not frothing at the mouth any more than usual, either."

I jab him sharply in the ribs with my elbow.

Rabid fear gleams in Hugo's eyes. He repeatedly drives his blood-soaked hands through his hair, eventually drenching his cinnamon locks. Tears begin to well, turning his coppery pupils into mirrors. "Oh, God. Oh, Lord, good, sweet Lord, please, I swear I will give up atheism and become the most Christian Christian to ever have Christianed." Swallowing with evident difficulty, Hugo meets my gaze. "Did it seem to have a fluffier neck, like it had a mane, or any other leonine features?"

I blink. "It – did, now that you mention it. Looked a lot like a giant lion with a weird head."

Hugo wails like a mourner at a funeral. "No!" Hugo howls in agony, clawing down his face, leaving trails of crimson blood over his cheeks. "No! Not here! Please, not here! Not now! Not Scruffy!" Scruffy peels a single eye open, issuing a whine that turns into a rack of coughing.

Ogden rises from his placement kneeling next to the wolf, pacing back and forth, distress obvious in his stance. The gears and other assorted metal fragments tinkle with each step. Raffe's pressure on my shoulder falters slightly.

"What is it?" I ask to anyone who is willing to offer an answer. "What's wrong?"

"You think Penryn ran into a cherub," Raffe guesses, ignoring my question. The features on his face that the fire chooses to accentuate create a frightening god, his leathery wings a terrifying backdrop. "It's impossible."

Hugo's eyes burn. "Is it? Goddammit, Raffe, think! Just for once in your life! I know it's difficult for you angels, but there's got to be a few brain cells in there somewhere! Ariel has never liked you. Some would even go as far to say that she hates you more than She Wolf does. She has no fucking clue that Bryon's out here with you. To her, it's only you and Penryn, and she's willing to sacrifice Penryn, even if it means Dragon and Lion are now her mortal enemies. She doesn't care how many Aurumn Stags she murders. In her eyes, you're a savage, a brutal savage. Even Uriel would be a step-up. And so she's going to get rid of you."

"A cherub?" I explode, mind reeling. "You're saying that thing in the woods was a little baby angel?"

Hugo throws his hands up in the air. "Where the hell did that rumor come from? What part of a cherub looks like a baby? The females have wimpy baby wings, I suppose, but nothing else – wait, I take that back. They've always got the heads of human babies."

"And Ariel?" I demand, pleased upon finally receiving some answers. "Who is she, and what does she have against Raffe?"

"Female equivalent of a Messenger. Leader of the she-angels." Hugo turns back to Scruffy, rubbing his hands over the wolf's face, cupping his head and cradling him on his lap. "You know, leader of the she-angels that don't stay in male aeries. Leader of the she-angels that don't promote misogyny. Lioness Archangel. She's the only female Archangel. She's the one that handles the cherubs, decides when they step in."

"It was a bad decision," Raffe growls darkly, "giving that responsibility to _her_."

Hugo snorts, the sound choking in his throat. "Misogynic angelic bastard," he mutters, sniffing loudly as he strokes Scruffy's ears. The wolf isn't looking so good – his velvety ears are limp, hanging like two wet cloths from the sides of his head. Thick, goopy snot runs from both nostrils like chunky rivers – they gleam in the light of the fire Ogden had started. His coppery eyes are glazed and distant, his left foreleg stiff as a board, and his chest rocks with labored breaths, each sound like that of a plastic bag being blown in and out of. Salt crusts the pads of his paws from the sweat he sheds.

"How long has it been?" wonders Raffe, dropping to a squat beside Scruffy. His broad hand rests at the wolf's forehead – my breath catches upon the realization that Scruffy barely reacts.

Hugo bares his teeth at Raffe like a wild animal, the gleam of his eyes caught in the green of the distant glowstick and the wheezing embers. "What does it matter to you?"

"This wolf saved Penryn's life. No matter my own personal dislikes" – Raffe's lip curls with disgust – "I can't ignore that. So, if you'd like to sit there and bitch about it, be my guest. I'm saving that wolf."

Hugo's hesitation seems to dangle my hope from a thin string, allowing it to twirl and flail in the breeze. At last, he nods, a small sniffle coming from him. "It's been nearly two hours. The venom should – a cherub's bite victim never lasts more than twelve hours."

"Without the proper antivenin, it doesn't," Raffe agrees with a curt nod of his head. "You said you've got nearly everything buried deep in those packs. Cherub antivenin isn't half as rare as that satanic symbols textbook you showed me earlier."

"I sold my last bottle to a Seraph." Hugo buries his face in his hands, massaging bloody fingers over his cheeks, his forehead, his temples. "God, I don't know what to do. I was going to restock at the next trading center, but… there's no getting out of this, not without Scruffy."

"To be pessimistic about something is to hand your soul over to the devil," Raffe scolds, whacking Hugo with the broad of one of his leathery wings. "Cheer up, Captain Sunshine."

"Think about it, Raffe. Bryon has no clue he's after a cherub. He's going to hunt that thing down and kill it if he can, before it reaches the swarm. If it does reach the swarm before he can track it down, God bless the poor dude. But, either way, the cherubs have a link straight back to this camp by his scent. They can pick up the traces of your odor on him, you know."

"Yeah, but I don't," I interject, nosing into their conversation. "Mind going into cherubs with a little more depth?"

"Well, the one you ran into was just a male," heads Hugo, switching out the filthy drenched rag that'd been pressed up against Scruffy's wound for a slightly newer filthy rag. "A scout to the party. Y'know, to search for any other main predators and chase 'em off, something that might give the females trouble. Basically, big male lions."

"The females are the ones you've really got to watch for," continues Raffe in a heartbeat, a breath behind Hugo. "They travel in – I don't think 'swarms' is an accurate description, but that's what they're called. More like a pack, like a pack of wolves. Body upon body upon body, running over each other, like a tawny tsunami of fangs and muscle and fur. Nasty creatures, millions in a 'swarm.'"

"They're nearly inescapable." Hugo dunks his hands in the bowl he'd been using as a washbasin type thing to at least cleanse himself, staining the water red. "See, even though the males are the only ones with big enough wings to fly for more than a few feet at a time, they're significantly weaker. Only their bites are poisonous, and even then, you've got twelve whole hours to track down a doctor. But with females – you never, ever want them to get their jaws on you. Then you won't even have the agony of your one-hour death, because a singular bite almost never happens except in laboratory circumstances. No, one latches on with barbed teeth and the rest follow. Like piranhas. Their venom grows that much more potent with each new nibble."

"Also, the claws are nasty," adds Raffe. "The venom coating those six-inch bad boys is similar to the strength of the male bite. To best avoid a swarm, angels usually take to the air. Need be, I will do that, carrying as many people as I can handle. But if –" Raffe cuts off. "We should search for alternate routes."

Hugo's eyes gleam as he backs up against the fire, raising his slender fingers to the flames to heat them against the chill of the night. "I'm not leaving Scruffy. Whatever we do –"

Abruptly, Hugo winces, back arching slightly. Curling over with a bizarre expression dominating his face, Hugo stands against the fire attentively, almost as if he's tuning into a favorite teacher's studies. The moment passes, and his taut face relaxes, the shadows of the fire dancing over his body once more.

Hugo frowns doubtfully. He pivots on one foot, turning to a figure half-swallowed by the darkened night. Crossing his arms, furrowing his brow, and pursing his lips, Hugo says, "Ogden, I don't know if that's such a good idea, especially with Raphael. I mean, a lot of work was –"

Hunching over again, Hugo listens, for a shorter period of time. My gaze catches Raffe's and he tilts his head in a gesture of minute puzzlement. The fire sways and flicks like a whip over his face in accordance with the wind's ferocity, highlighting fierce, strong features and black hair the color of the night itself. My attention is once more adverted from the angel as Hugo is brought back to life.

"I dunno, man." Hugo shakes his head, worry glinting alongside the copper in his eyes. "We should wait for –"

This time, Ogden moves in the darkness. My vision can hardly pierce the shadows of the night, can scarcely see beyond their dusky veils, but I do see his fist slam into the trunk of the nearest tree in a gesture of violent displeasure. Hugo doubles over, gasping instead of freezing.

"Alright, Ogden," he apologizes hurriedly. "Sorry, man, I didn't mean it like that. I know you're older than Bryon, and wiser and stuff. Just – thought he should be here before we take off."

Ogden nods. Before I can fully comprehend what'd taken place, the old man steps up to the firelight and beams shyly at Hugo. Apology sparkles in those warm brown eyes, candid and ashamed. Breathing out shakily, Hugo slaps Ogden on the forearm.

"Sorry, man, you pull off the human image so well, I forget sometimes you're just as powerful as Bryon," he chuckles. "And you're right; it's not like there's anything but abandoned medical supplies there. They can always build another one. I'll have to call Baelan to help us out with Scruffy and the packs."

Raffe steps forward, bathing his chiseled body in firelight. "What's going on?"

"Back in the old days, y'know, pre-apocalypse," Hugo explains, striding past Raffe with his usual carefree arrogance returning with each cocky word, "Nephilim would learn how to tell when you or any other angel was coming by the weather patterns. You weren't exactly stealthy with it, by the way. And so, they focused their environments around these holy places called Chazas, named after Chazaqiel, the Watcher that taught his children how to watch the clouds. Now, they're mostly called Nephilim Temples. There's an abandoned one not three miles from here – we passed right by it, not to long ago. Should be safe to harbor us for the night."

"They left because the western coast is dangerous, correct?" Raffe assumes.

"Well, yeah. Honestly, it was a bad idea to build here at all, despite the boom in education and jobs and stuff. Everyone was awfully convinced that the angels were gone for good, though. Good thing your dad chased the Nephilim off when things started getting bad again, Penryn, or they'd pretty much be screwed, and Raffe's reputation would be in smithereens."

I open my mouth to question him, but I don't get very far before my train of thought is stolen from me. A silver knife gleams in the air, hissing in pleasure as it snakes through flesh. My mouth drops open as a thick trail of blood bubbles from Hugo's forearm, dripping down his fingers, landing drop by drop in the sable leaves beneath him.

"Oh, you hellish thing," Hugo chants awkwardly. "You hell angel – that's fallen – so now you're bad. Come to me, bad fallen hell angel." Weariness replaces his odd tone of voice. "Oh, fuck it. I need you, Bay." Hugo's voice cracks. "I need you _right now_."

"How soon is 'right now'?" rumbles a voice with the depth and complexity of a roll of thunderclaps, and something shivers in the shadows. Raffe drops into a protective stance, legs splaying wide and scythes bristling from their sheathes.

"Bay!" Hugo rejoices, throwing his arms around the shadowed figure. "Oh, God, man, I thought you weren't going to show up! Listen, I'm so sorry, completely and utterly my fault, I was a dick, it'll never happen again –"

"You have no reason to be sorry, it was not completely your fault, you were a dick, I'm sure it'll happen again." The creature darkened by the surrounding night wraps its arms around Hugo as well, the fire revealing a reddish brown skin pallor. "For the record, though, I was coming here to apologize when I heard you calling. Hugo, what's wrong? Why is your face red? Your hair? Why are you bloody?" Almost as if he's grooming Hugo, the creature rubs at his face with a palm and strokes his hair anxiously.

"Bay." Hugo grabs the massive fallen angel by the wrists, pausing his grooming assault. "It's not my blood."

The angel is silent for a long moment, his hands dropping down by his sides. I use the silence to gather Paige against me, clasping her tiny hand in mine and squeezing it. My heart hammers in my veins, my hand gripping the hilt of Pooky Bear tightly.

"What's the matter, Hugo?" the fallen angel questions pensively.

"It's Scruffy." Though I support gay rights, I can't say I'm comfortable as Hugo buries his head into the fallen angel Baelan's shoulder. "He's –"

"I see," cuts off Baelan, his throaty voice as hard as flint. "The cherubs, I assume, are the culprits?"

Hugo nods in the darkness.

"Ariel," Baelan grumbles, striding towards the light, allowing me the first real glance at all six and a half feet of him. "She means well, she truly does. In fact, if things had worked out as they should've, she would've had my highest praise. But the fact that Scruffy was harmed in the crossfires gives birth to a sort of ire, doesn't it?" Without pause, he continues on to say, "Oh, Raphael, quit glaring at me. We have more pressing urges to follow than the tug of testosterone."

"Later," Raffe vows. "I take it you are, however, Hugo's sweetheart?"

"Yes. And you would be Penryn's?"

"No."

"Good for her." Warm approval paints his hard voice a different shade of grey, into something softer. His face cocks towards me. "Good for you. You can do much better."

"I'm not sure you get much better than me," Raffe brags.

"We are testosterone fighting, and wasting time," Baelan negates, turning his back on Raffe to crouch down to Scruffy. Thick fingers caress up the wolf's neck, prompting a whine and a tail wag – the largest reaction I'd seen from the mutt in a long while to anyone. "For the record, though, Hugo is a thousand times better than you. Is Bryon about?"

"Nah, he chased after the cherub." Hugo jabs a thumb over his shoulder. With Baelan here, he seems considerably calmer, even returning to the washbasin to clean his face of blood. "He should catch wind of this and be on his merry way when he comes back to the camp. Ogden wants us to leave immediately."

Baelan nods in comprehension, his head bobbing in the firelight. "Ogden, would you mind giving me a hand? I can take most of Scruffy's weight, but his feet would drag. Oh, wait, can you take a few of Hugo's packs? Raphael, you too. Penryn, since you're the only one who'll have an angel sword who'll be truly accessible, remain on guard. It looks like a nasty wound, and I'm sorry, but you'll need to be a hundred percent. Keep the little girl close – the last thing we need is her wandering off. Hugo, take my sword – show Penryn how extraordinary a real supernatural weapon is, please."

Hugo ambles forward cockily, allowing his fingers to roam about the angel's waistline slightly before gripping the hilt of his boyfriend's sword tightly. With the gentle hiss of metal reveling in freedom, the sword slides from the scabbard. The firelight only illuminates the jagged edges and the black matte material of the metal.

"Alright." The moonlight gleams off Baelan's long hair. "Ogden, do you have a few packs over one shoulder? Good, so do I. Now, help me with Scruffy. Just slightly lift him, I'll take most of the weight."

Scruffy moans gutturally and kicks once as Baelan's muscles strain in the darkness. With animalistic strength, Baelan lifts Scruffy's front half from the ground, ducking beneath the wolf's chest. Baelan plants two hands on his chest, allowing the wolf's legs to droop lifelessly over his shoulders. With Scruffy's chin resting at his forehead, Baelan lifts his gaze to the rest of the group. Onyx eyes glitter in the darkness. For the first time, his dark wings unfurl slightly from his back to prop Scruffy's flaccid body up. They aren't utterly black, either, though the light is too poor to determine what they may be.

"Is everybody ready?" Baelan questions. It seems everybody is – Paige is clutching my hand, and, remarkably, Raffe's obediently got the weight of Hugo's packs over one shoulder. "Wait, no. I hear Bryon coming. Do you?"

"Yes," answers Raffe.

"Affirmative," pants a new voice. Bryon stumbles from the forest, tripping over his feet. His bronze eyes seem even moon lustrous in the moonlight, as if it is his element. Even the dark mess of his hair seems infused with metal only visible beneath the stars, gleaming in gentle shades of copper and gold, like tiger's eye. His staff still swings in one hand, cloak untouched, but the rest of him is battered and bares only the remains of wounds.

"I slowed down the swarm," he informs. "You do know – yes, you know, you've got Hugo with you, of course you know. Nice to see you again, Bay. Are we going somewhere?" He blinks, reflective eyes glinting in the night. "No, of course! The Nephilim Temple! Oh, you clever boy, Ogden. That's why we pay you the big bucks. Here, Raffe, let me take some of those, it looks heavy."

"I've got it," grunts Raffe, shifting the weight to both shoulders.

"Alright." Bryon recoils, a concerned expression hidden in his eyes. "Well, Penryn, can I borrow Pooky Bear? Just for the walk there, things are bound to get ugly. I've been handling angel swords for a little longer than you, just a smidge. But if nah, that's okay, I can borrow Hugo's bow."

"You can't pick up – never mind, I want to see this." Raffe cocks an eyebrow. "Give it to him, Penryn."

Bryon shrugs. "We really don't have time for this. Give it to me, or don't. It's your decision, Pe – can I call you Penny?"

"No," I veto the moment the words escape his lips. "And sure. Give it a swing. But you'd better give it back the moment we step inside this safe haven. That is, if you can hold her. She's pretty nitpicky."

Without another thought, my hand closes around Pooky Bear's hilt. I toss it in the air, allowing the blade to sparkle in the moonlight, seemingly a star of its own. Bryon catches it flawlessly, without an inkling of effort. He throws it up in the air once experimentally.

"Good blade," he compliments. "You don't get many like this. I think I'll call you Schnuckims. Let's go, shall we?"

"How –" breathes Raffe, but he ends his statement before anyone else can for him. "Never mind, let's leave it until later, like all of these other brilliant questions. We should leave immediately."

"That would be wise," concedes Baelan. "But this company isn't quite known for its wisdom."

* * *

"Is this it?" My voice is skeptical after the ages of silence, echoing off the hills. The cave is more like a puncture wound in the skin of the forest floor than a temple or a "Chaza", and the dark pit certainly doesn't look big enough for all of us. Yellow grass sways around in the night breeze, growing over the hillside like hair on a head.

"Yes." Bryon lifts his head, relief shining in his eyes. Hurriedly, he claps his staff against the trunk of a tree, drawing any attention that hadn't been on him. "We need to work swiftly, the swarm will undoubtedly be on us in the hour. Bay, Ogden, Hugo – you all go inside to help with Scruffy, but Bay, I want you to return as soon as you set Scruffy down, and you, Ogden, you stay with Hugo to help him with Scruffy. We need to barricade this door up. Raffe, you drop off your stuff right there at the doorway, and come immediately back out. Ogden, also pick up Raffe's stuff, okay? Penryn, here, take Shnuckims back" – he tosses it underhand, and I find that I, too, can catch it in the air without blinking an eye – "you're going to help me guard the backs of everyone working to barricade this place up. Paige, hon, how about you follow Hugo? Everyone got it? Yes? Go."

People split for the opening, carrying the now frothing at the mouth and unconscious wolf on their shoulders. Hugo's eyes gleam with worry, and one of his hands rests on Scruffy's side. Paige trots obediently after them. With a hostile glance, Raffe slinks as the tail of the beast. Ever since his sword had allowed herself to be handled by Bryon, he'd been sulky, like a kid on the playground whose favorite toy was stolen.

"Shit." Bryon curses quietly to himself. "Thought we had more time than that. Penryn, gather closer, ready position." With a swallow, Bryon's voice amplifies. "Hurry up! I hear the snarls!"

Raffe is outside in a heartbeat, next to the large Native American-colored fallen angel. My angel flexes his muscles, the familiar hiss of his scythes sliding from their sheathes filling the bitter night air. Bryon twists his staff expertly in one hand.

"Penryn, Baelan, you're going to need to guard," he orders. "No matter what attacks you, don't let it get past or get a claw through your defenses. We should have enough antivenin for male poison, but not for female. Raphael – you see these boulders, here?" Bryon gestures towards the uneven boulders peppering the hillside. "They were meant to block the hole up. That's our first order of business. The second path in is always blocked, as well as the third, so them finding an alternate path won't be an issue. Alright?"

"Consider it done." Raffe nods confidently. Despite the nerves tingling through my body as I, too, hear the first echoes of snarls and catlike yowls echoing over the ridges, I cannot help but notice the way he effortlessly heaves a boulder overhead to set it down in the belly of the hole. Bryon hefts his and places it besides Raffe's, gesturing to create a sort of tower with them to block up the eight-foot high hole.

"Ever fought a cherub?" Baelan's voice beckons me back to the present. His obsidian eyes glitter, his red skin tenses.

"No," I admit honestly, a slight flush of embarrassment coloring my cheeks. Imitating his ready stance and the way he holds his sword, I cast sly glances his direction. "I'm a bit new to this world of demons and ghosts. Just killed my first angel not long ago."

"I heard about that." Respect steels Baelan's voice. "Congratulations. Many of my brethren had a good laugh over that one. Considering most of the time they sulk about and stir up lives for the worst, it was comforting to know they still have a scrap of – dare I say it? – humanity."

"It's not every day I get complimented by a fallen angel for killing an angel." I smile dryly and shoot him a curious glance. "So, are you guys, like, rivals or something?"

"Not exactly." His muscles tense more, blade swinging up into a batter's position. "More like angel leaders are pissed at demon leaders. Foot soldiers on the fallen side really just don't give a –" his blade whips through the air the exact moment a beast springs from the shadows, tawny coat illuminated by the moonlight – "_DAMN_!"

The moment of impact is correspondent to the moment his blade hits the side of the creature's head. It wails and caterwauls into a nearby bush, the sound of a bone snapping nearly as loud as his roar.

"Nice one, Bae – Bay-lan?"

"Call me Bay." He smiles friendlily. "And that was nothing. It's going to get a helluva lot harder."

"Can you tell me where they're coming from?" I wonder, eyes still not able to puncture the shadows of the forest. The snarls had gained an octave the moment Bay's sword had hit the cherub. "I mean, I just need to point – oh, wait, I hereby name thee Pooky Bear."

"You had a chance to rename her!" Raffe howls from somewhere behind me. "Why? Why are you doing this to her? My weapon of utmost destruction!"

Though I ignore the necessity to give him an answer, I do not ignore his words – they bring a grin to my face. "I just need to point Pooky Bear in the right direction. If I don't know the right direction –"

"Coming up on your left, eleven o'clock," Bay interrupts, jerking his head about.

As soon as I gift Pooky Bear with this knowledge, she releases her anger at her cutesy name. I hear its snarl and move accordingly, positioning Pooky Bear in the way she orders. I don't even need to truly swing. The creature skewers itself, leaping onto the ready point and sliding down the blade until its chest hits the hilt with a _thunk_. My face contorts with disgust as I stare at the leonine neck melting into soft human baby skin and a little infant's head, mouth bristled with acid-dripping teeth. With the toe of my boot, I push it off the end, kicking it away from me in repulsion.

I turn to Bay, searching for approval, only to find him ripping his sword from the breasts of two other cherubs. My pride turns into a pout. "Oh, now you've got more than me."

His head snaps to the side. "Two nine o'clock, all yours."

Pooky Bear works her magic, cutting off each of their snarls. Her blade slices through their golden pelts like a hot knife through butter.

"We're almost finished!" cries Bryon. The snarls are almost like a buzz now, the inescapable buzz of the hive. The term "swarm" makes an alarming amount of sense now.

"They're almost on us!" Bay roars back. He grabs my wrist and drags me closer to the entrance of the Chaza, almost against the stone. "Oh, _Christo_, here they are."

My vision narrows, and Pooky Bear swings into position. The first cherub is met with my rapid downstrike, the second with a parry towards Bay's domain. Bay is like the demon he appears to be, slicing through the beasts in a hurricane-like fashion. Pooky Bear takes me on autopilot, guiding my limbs into swift motions, mowing down plenty of cherubs of my own.

But the cherubs are overwhelming – their screeches grate on my nerves, vibrating in my ears. The choir of snarls isn't background sound simply because of all the different tones of voice and pitches. No matter how many of the cherubs I slice down, no matter how high the wall of dead bodies before me grows, only more seem to come.

Slowly, the cherubs push me back, their grating squeals bringing agony to my ears. Not only do they approach from the front now – the little devils had flanked us as well. Their eyes – luminescent silver in the dark night – glare with unequivocal odium at me. Talons armed with bloodcurdling strength slice through the air like the wings of a thrush. Desperately, I try to duck and weave to avoid those I cannot block. Fanged mouths, I learn, are a perfect target; the back of their mouths are soft, and, with enough power, you can stab them through the maw and up into the skull.

The flightless cherubs pile over each other. A pair of jaws snaps next to my ear, a single thread of gloopy saliva landing on my forehead before I can slice the cherub down. The poisoned claws of the ones lucky enough to have clambered to the top slice into the tawny hides of those towards the bottom. My muscles tremble with effort of fending off all the claws.

Behind me, Bryon cries out. In the corner of my eye, I see him swinging his staff up to smack a cherub from its lithe pounce. Fatigue drags at my limbs; the high of Pooky Bear's fury is wearing off, grounded into fine sand by the wails of the cherubs.

"Fall back, Penryn!" Bay roars, slamming his elbow into the throat of a cherub that'd pierced through my defense system. At first, I do not comprehend the aberration, only shoved away from him by a reckless sweep of his arm. He takes on the full mass, tensing his muscles and splaying his dark wings, perhaps to increase his size. I stumble back and into a pair of waiting arms, watching as the fallen angel's burly form submerges into a sea of golden pelts, listening to their triumphant screeches with horror when he does not appear again.

"He'll be fine!" Bryon roars over the snarls of the cherubs, his grip on my shoulders tightening. He tugs me back against a rocky barrier, and shoves me to a hole in the fortification. "He'll go to hell if he gets mortally wounded. Go! We'll follow!"

Uncertainly, I back away from the swirling vortex of tawny cherubs, crouching down to shimmy through the gap in the stone and allow the cool darkness of the cave to grip me. The stone barricade is thick, and, with each foot that I inch deeper into the mouth of the cave, the screeching of the cherubs quiets.

Gasping, I drag myself out the other end, blinking at the infinite darkness before me. The dampness on my tongue and the slight drip echoing makes it seem like I'm in a long, wet corridor. Panting, I slide from the hole, wondering how either broad-shouldered Raffe or giant-in-general Bryon will make it through. Groping blindly for a wall, I stumble to my feet, Pooky Bear's tip dragging along the stone flooring with an awful scratch.

"Stop that," snaps Raffe. I can almost feel his movement as he, too, squeezes through the gap. "You're going to hurt her."

"I'm ever so sorry," I mutter sarcastically, "about your poor little sword. Is Bryon alright? Did he make it out?"

"I'm ever so pleased," Raffe counters with a snarl, "about your poor little Bryon. He's on my heels. Be out any second."

"Somebody call my name?" Bryon grunts as he slides from the hole, the sound of his wooden staff clattering against the rock. "I can't see worth a damn. Raphael, do you know where we put the stone was?"

"I can _try_ to find it." Raffe sounds skeptical. My skin tingles as one of his hands clip against my boot. His hand roams back, feeling the rubber tip, then patting it pettily in assurance. "Usually, though, I need a bit of light to operate."

Shooting him a puzzled look he doesn't receive, I mutter, "I thought you could see in the dark. Can't angels see in the dark?"

"Like anybody else," explains Raffe with exaggerated patience, "angels need some light to see anything. Whether it's an entire night sky or a single little star, we can see in the dark much better than people. But there's no light down here, nothing for me to see."

"Found it!" cries Bryon. A deep grunt is issued from somewhere to my right as he evidently hefts a boulder over one shoulder. "Should keep 'em out, this barrier combined with the natural guardians of this place. Ariel should call off the attack soon – Hugo tweeted her in annoyance, so we should get results the next time she's on a tablet."

"What?" I don't think I've ever heard Raffe so baffled.

"Twitter. New gambfingled technology." Bryon's smile is clear in his tone. "She-angels like to keep ahead of the game with the most modern technology. Now that this boulder is in place, we should move deeper into the belly of the temple. Welcoming us to the Chaza will be a statue of Chazaqiel and his ever-burning flame. I'm not sure what you two will do – Penryn, praying to an angel may seem like utter bogus, and Raphael, this entire setup may seem primal – but incense burning sticks will be offered, as well. For good luck, you place one at the feet of one of the Watchers."

"Is that a Nephilim custom?" Raffe's voice is smugly amused. "A way to respect their fathers?"

"No, it's a way for Nephilim to respect the first fathers." Bryon's voice is curt, as if Raffe had offended him. "Many of the Nephilim born today and in today's time never had fathers, _true_ fathers. Just… angels raping women case-scenarios. Those angels are revered by every race across the Earth for becoming something greater than the angelic stereotype, for becoming something absolutely beautiful."

Pitted between two wild animals on the brink of battle, I remain quiet as a prey animal beneath the predators' feet, avoiding drawing any attention to myself.

"Hmm," harrumphs Raffe skeptically. "There is nothing beautiful about siring demons."

"But there is something exquisitely beautiful in raising a family." Bryon taps the end of his staff to the stone floor. "Raphael, you may have different views than I, but now is hardly the time or the place to argue."

"I agree," I add. "We need to find Paige and get the hell on our way. Also, find Scruffy."

"I suppose we'd better move." Reluctance drags at Raffe's words. "Down the creepy passageway, then?"

"Down the creepy passageway," Bryon approves, his footsteps already whispering in the echoes of the hall. The wooden clack of his staff hitting the ground on each lope may eventually drive me mad, but, for the moment, it's calming – a beat, a rhythm to keep in sync with.

"Just out of interest, why could you pick up Pooky Bear?" I wonder.

"I was thinking that I was trying to save Raphael as hard as I could, honestly," Bryon admits. "Those swords read thoughts and intentions, as well. It could be partial to my blood, but I think that it's because I want the angels the hell off Earth as soon as possible, and the only way I can do that is get Raphael his wings back."

"May I ask which Watcher will you be praying to?" inquires Raffe in a too-polite tone of voice.

Bryon's pitch drops an octave. "Me? Why, I'll be praying to Sariel, the one who taught me everything I know."

* * *

**Nearly all of you decided that surely, Scruffy would be okay. Because I can't kill off a character that adorable so soon. Pfft. Wanna bet?**

**Alright. So. New character introduction… two in this chapter! Ariel will probably never be that important, but… she's cool, you know? Baelan isn't an actual fallen angel… but he will appear again, which is also cool.**

**I'm not utterly certain what the cherubs actually looked like – the website I got the winged-lion theory off of looked pretty legitimate, with selections from biblical texts, but it can't be verified. However, I liked the idea when I was first investigating angels to picture the cherubs, so I kept it.**

**Mild suggestion that you might want to look up the Watchers on Wikipedia and see what Sariel has to offer. Might help piece things together a little bit.**

**POLL: Nephilim Temple. Chaza. Expectations? Beliefs?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	10. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

On my mother's frantic travels around the world, I've been to many so-called "holy" places.

I've seen churches and temples and street corner preachers' houses galore. My mother, hysteric with her lust to repent for a terrible sin she hadn't yet committed, had dragged me from place to place in order to confess to anyone willing to listen to her illusions of demons. Every chapel I'd sat in, anxiously awaiting my mother to emerge from the priest's corner, had a vague feeling of serenity. Perhaps it was the high ceilings and majestic artwork framed on the walls. Perhaps it was the murmured prayers issued from the lips of desperate sinners or the Latin chants of a deacon's pleas. Perhaps it was the sensation that, surely here, my mother's demons would find neither her nor me.

This empty chamber has an utterly different taste in the air.

It's almost as if I can feel the breath of another being against my neck, hear its resounding heartbeat in the _clack-clack-clack_ of Bryon's wooden pole against the stone. The softly dancing flame shivering from the crown of the slender incense stick casts only the barest amount of orange light, so little that I don't even see the ghost of the floor beneath my feet. Aside from that beckoning flame, everything is dark and foreboding.

No feeling of calm hugs the air, no sense of hostility scents the wind. If anything, indifference is the only thing that the cavern seems to hold – innocent and speculating indifference, to anyone that may tread down its throat and into the pit of its stomach.

The air is moist, like constricting damp hands. If it had been any other cave, I'm certain somewhere a slow and steady drip would sound, trickling from the ceiling down a stalactite. So, here, in the belly of the earth, so near to its reverberating heart, I find myself counting my breaths and setting my footsteps in tune with Bryon's staff. Clutching to the fire's soft light, it seems that, if I lose either Raffe or Bryon in the shadowed labyrinth, I will never discover them again.

With alacrity, Bryon stops, his flame spluttering at the sudden pause. My knees lock, my halt so abrupt Raffe sets a warm hand on my shoulder to steady me in case I may fall. Perhaps the angel can see the hairs on the back of my neck slowly standing on end, or hear the rapid rattle of my heartbeat. The warmth of his flesh on mine soothes my jumpiness.

Bryon's voice is alien after so long a silence. "Stay here. The ground we plod upon is treacherous."

I dare not break the quiet myself, merely nodding in response. If Raffe does the same, I do not see.

The candle flame moves again in the darkness, bobbing in accordance with Bryon's whisper-soft footsteps. My breath is held for reasons I cannot describe – whatever that man may be doing, there is something unnatural in it. There is a presence here, hanging in the air, an almost bitter spirit flavoring each breath I take.

Bryon stops abruptly, a little further than twenty feet from Raffe and I. He says something in a strange, garbled language that I don't quite catch, lifting the incense stick up to the ceiling.

"What did he say?" I whisper to Raffe, knowing his keen ears will have detected the noise with ease.

"I…" His voice is puzzled, but his speech vibrates his chest. "It's no language I've ever heard before. Strange, though, that he should worship angels. He does not seem the religious nutball type."

"From what he said," I murmur back, "I think he's just drawing on… Saw-ree-el for strength and courage and things like that. Not really worshipping. But trying to be like."

"Hmm," Raffe breathes. There's consideration in his tone, but, before he can retaliate with barbed words, Bryon quits chanting and casts down the incense stick.

Fire roars to life in a vat of oil that reveals itself. At the sudden vengeful heat in the chill of the tunnel, I stumble back slightly. The orange flames halo Bryon, silhouetting him against the orange. After spreading across the long trough of oil, the fire leaps up, snapping at the sky. It bathes an enormous statue in crackling light, spreading a topaz gleam along the slick walls and the damp floor.

The statue crowned by the fire seems startling familiar – everything about the tall, proud angel carved into white marble is as if I'd seen it once upon a dream. His wings are carved from a golden metal, just the very tips marble crescents. Two gold disks make up his eyes. Around his feet, a dragon curls, this one adorned in brass and copper.

Bryon's head tips back to stare up at the angel for mere seconds; his form against the flame adds a menacing gleam to his bronze eyes, despite his serene expression. Then, bowing once to the magnificent pyre, he turns back to Raffe and I, staff clapping against the ground. The cloak he wears flutters a tentative farewell, almost as if mourning a lost friend.

Cocking his head back slightly to admire the roar of the flames and the talons clawing at the gold, Bryon chuckles, "Kinda creepy, isn't it? Though he'd never say it aloud, Sariel himself was scared of his own altar, especially when it was lit like this. Can't say I blame him. It's a beautiful little idol, but honestly, those eyes are scary."

His warm, melodic voice in the darkness of the untouched shadows is like a balm to my nerves, disbanding any sinister thoughts I'd had. The soft flash of Bryon's bronze eyes act like beacons in the darkness, repelling any of my fear.

"Mildly impressive craftwork," Raffe admits begrudgingly. "Monkeys will do anything for their entities, won't they?"

"Not just humans." Bryon tilts his head to one side, blinking in a slow, lazy way. "I believe in God. Perhaps not the way he is depicted by either angels or humans, but I do believe in the Lord."

"Primitive," Raffe scoffs. "For one who claims to be as powerful as you, you definitely have a lot of old ties."

"I may have an old fashioned view on life," Bryon accepts, "but I see it as a vast opportunity, affected by the people you communicate with, the things you do, and the rules you follow, not to mention the ones you disobey. And I'm happy that way, with my indifferent God and my Heaven for all those that do good. What truly interests me is that Ogden did not light a fire. Perhaps he did, and it died down. Both Gadreel and Penemue don't have much oil, I'd imagine, with this blooming war."

"The Nephilim are fighting, too?" I wonder.

"Well, not quite yet." Bryon turns to me, benevolence sparkling in his bronze eyes. "But they're on the human side, if that's what you mean. I've gotten in touch with your Obi – he knows me. I've told him not to worry about the Nephilim should they join him."

"Obi?" My interest peaks. "What is he doing?"

"I'm not utterly certain," Bryon admits, scratching his neck. "You've probably seen him closer to time than I have."

"Oh. Oh, okay. Should we go, then, or will Sariel glare at us some more?"

"Let's go, he is _so_ freaky." Bryon releases a slow breath into the air, his ivory teeth catching the slightest hint of the flame along the pearly surface. "Back into the dark, creepy tunnels. I remember when these Temples were well lit. But I guess that's what being abandoned does to a place."

* * *

A sudden, jarring pain on Ariel's wrist has her whirling, rapidly pinning her to the wall. With a jar of breath, Ariel quickly responds to the abrupt attacker with a quick cut to the stomach. It isn't until the other she-angel blocks her counterattack that Ariel's gaze at last meets those cherry colored eyes.

"What the hell were you trying to pull, Ariel?" Audiat hisses, her teeth bared in a toothy snarl. "In what world does eliminating Bryon assist your personal agenda?"

One of Ariel's eyebrows raise. She blinks in slow, feline confusion, maintaining a perfectly indifferent expression as she stares down at the little angel. "I do not know what you mean."

"Tumblr's exploded," Audiat snaps, her high voice like daggers against Ariel's peaceful façade. "Hugo, Bryon, and Ogden were all in that forest that you released the cherubs on. Hugo's pissed off like nobody's business because Scruffy was hurt, and Baelan had to go back down to hell to escape the swarm. Bryon's pissed that you endangered his nieces."

Throughout Audiat's vindictive speech, Ariel's face had slowly lost color, her black wings wilting. Horror gleams in her eyes. The empty hallway is silent for a moment, echoing the rage of Audiat's words. Audiat's chest pumps in and out, slender strands of white hair falling into her face. Warm reddish brown wings shiver threateningly at her sides. Against such blind fury, Ariel's tongue seems clumsy in her mouth, but the words are astonishingly punctual.

"None of them are harmed?" Ariel questions intently, shaking Audiat off her wrist with a mere flick of the arm. "Do we need to send in a medical team? Thea owes me a favor. The Wives can always move in, I know they're nearby."

Audiat steps back, still suspicious. "You didn't know that they were with Raphael?"

Ariel waves a hand dismissively. "Of course not. In what world would I harm Ogden, or Bryon? I have no desire to become an enemy of their followers. Anyone who kills either Bryon or Hugo or even little Ogden finds themselves Target No. One."

"And Penryn, the human's hero?"

"I assumed that the girl could become a martyr for the humans to fight for if she indeed perished, but it seems God isn't smiling upon me."

Audiat crosses her arms. Her eyes narrow, hazel specks dancing. "None of them were seriously injured, lucky for you. Bryon received a few nicks and scrapes, and Scruffy was mortally maimed, but they found sanctuary in the Chaza."

"I see." Ariel nods to herself, connecting the dots. "The forest Chaza? Why would Bryon show Raphael such a secret, even if it is neglected?"

With this, Audiat seems displeased. Her frown is mighty with disapproval. "It seems that beautiful idiot thinks that Raphael can change his ways, because of… _friendship_ and _magic_, that's why."

Ariel snorts in amusement. "He is clever, and he is good, but perhaps he is too good to be a war leader. There comes a time when you must abandon all hope for a person. Raphael is simply too dangerous. I dislike that I am forced to spare his life when it was so close at hand."

"To kill him would be to assist Uriel," Audiat points out. "For the moment, I'd stick to Bryon's plan. I'm not quite sure what it is, but he got rid of us the last time, didn't he?"

"True," Ariel acknowledges. She twists a golden bangle around her wrist until it rubs the skin raw. "I merely hate putting the fate of our aeries in the hands of one so reckless."

* * *

"Hey, Bryon?" Hugo's voice is soft, barely carried over the snapping crackle of the roaring fire the giant had built to light the cavern and to heat it. His fingers caress Scruffy's groggy face, lulling the wolf into a deep sleep.

Bryon lifts his head from the soft stick he'd been whittling at, attentive at the sound of his name. "Yes, Hugo?"

"Can you sing something?" he questions awkwardly. "I mean, like you did in the good old days. The lullaby. You know the likes. Not the sad lullaby. But the hopeful one."

"Of course." Bryon smiles merrily, setting both feet down on the ground and leaning closer to the fire. "Is there any reason behind your request, or is it merely a momentary desire?"

Hugo casts a glance in my direction, though perhaps his gaze is more directed to Raffe than I. The angel does sit beside me, and, with the teasing ploys of the fiery hands, a gaze's intention can be hard to discern.

"I'll tell you later," he decides brusquely.

"Alright." Bryon straightens, tilting his gaze over Ogden's shoulder. "Paige, hon, how about you leave Scruffy's tail alone? Just because he's feeling better doesn't mean he's a hundred percent. I'm sure Raphael would be thrilled to have you play with his wings instead."

"Oh, yes," cajoles Raffe acidly, "let's send the child to go toy with the leathery demon wings and massive scythes! What could possibly go wrong?"

"Well, then, sourpuss, she can come play with my cloak." Unaffected by Raffe's taunting, Bryon slips it off his shoulders and extends it to Paige. "You wanna try it on for size?"

Grinning tautly, Paige's wobbly legs hold her in a standing position. The sight of her glee brings a matching smile to my face, and gratitude for Bryon's fatherly attitude towards her demonic appearance. Ungracefully tripping to his side, she knots her fingers into the silky fabric. Patiently, Bryon helps her clasp it at her chest, teaching her how to use it for "later use". And then little Paige is gone, brown cloak swishing behind her like a wedding veil. Both Bryon's and Raffe's eyes seem to follow the sound of her footsteps.

With a contented sigh, Bryon turns back to the fire. His ripped shirt allows views of the muscles flexing beneath the fabric. The smile in his eyes is nearly as blinding as the smile on his lips. "Now, Hugo, you said you wanted the lullaby, correct?"

"Yep." Hugo fondles Scruffy's ears, voice still quiet. "You know, the one you'd sing to me when I was a kid."

Turning towards Raffe and I, Bryon forewarns, "Though some like my voice, others hate it with a burning passion. I'm not promising sincere enjoyment nor absolute hatred, but I figured it would be nice to tell you in advance."

"I'm interested," I confess, ghost of a smile touching my lips.

Awkwardly blushing, Bryon looks into the heart of the fire, his long lashes catching their golden reflection. He clears his throat, and begins to sing.

His voice is just as beautiful as Hugo had painted it to be. Sharp as a razor and yet warm like folds of fragrant laundry fresh from the dryer, it holds a strange power to it. I find myself transfixed by the beautiful vibrations and tough steel tones of Bryon's voice. It almost awakens memories of happier days, days when my father would laugh at my mother's jokes, days when I was content with watching whatever my babysitter put on, days before I had to worry about angels attacking my homeland.

"_I hear the wind call my name_," Bryon sings, the emotion he places in every word like a roll of thunder. "_A sound that leads me home again! It sparks up a fire, a flame that still burns. To you, I will always return._"

Taking a deep breath, he launches into the second verse, one with equal beauty. "_I know the road is long, but where you are is home. Wherever you stay, I'll find a way!_"

Ogden sways to the beat, blissful expression consuming his face.

"_I'll run like the river, I'll follow the sun! I'll fly like an eagle to where I belong! I can't stand the distance, I can't dream alone! I can't wait to see you, yes I'm on my way home. _

"_Now I know it's true, my every road leads to you. And in the hour of darkness, your light gets me through. _

"_You run like the river, you shine like the sun. You fly like an eagle, yeah you are the one. I've seen every sunset, and with all that I've learned…_"

Bryon swallows and shuts his eyes to conceal the tears I'd seen glistening on the surface of his bronze irises. Heartbreak is what fashions the emotion in the last line, not the same powerful determination found throughout the rest of the tune.

"_Oh, it's to you, I will always, always… return._"

Silence hangs like a tarp over the fireside. Even Raffe deems the song worthy of no sarcastic comments. Slowly, Bryon's eyes peel open, but he looks nowhere but the heart of the fire. At long last, Hugo speaks, but his voice is tired and foggy with exhaustion as his head slowly droops to fall against his wolf's bandaged chest.

"I'm so glad that you incorporated that in the soundtrack," he yawns. "Beautiful song. My favorite. The other one's too sad. Too creepy. Just… keep singing that one, please."

Bryon smiles brittlely. "I'll do my best, Hugo. Goodnight, my friend." Then, cracking his shoulder muscles with a swift jerk, he stands. "We should all follow his example and get some rest. There's no way to tell time here, really, so getting sleep now would be as good as getting sleep any other. I'll take first watch."

"I'll take second," I volunteer.

"Third," rumbles Raffe. He points a finger at Hugo. "He can take fourth, and Ogden can take fifth, if we can sleep that long."

"I'll take fourth again," offers Bryon, locking gaze with Raffe. "It's no biggy. Let the poor boy sleep, and Scruffy, too. You can't wake one up without alerting the other."

"Fine," Raffe relents, surprisingly not fighting Bryon over his ruling. Judging by Bryon's raised eyebrows, I'm not the only one that's surprised. "But it's your own senses you're dulling."

* * *

Again, I face a lucid dream, and this time, I recognize one of the people.

_It's a party, a frivolous, frilly party. The angels sway to the beat of music I've never heard the likes of before, wearing strange clothes and bizarre fashions. Almost as if the winged idiots lack the creativity to create another layout, the setup is virtually identical to the party I'd attended at the aerie – strangely dressed humans offering bubbling drinks to chatting angels, a band of musicians playing on bizarre instruments creating twangy and unpleasant harmony, and a raised area for the muscled warriors, who, as I notice with explicit interest, are all shirtless, excluding two females that trot among the ranks. _

_The females. That's the only thing missing from the party. There are no human stand-ins for the vacant she-angels. The only two are these finely dressed women warriors. _

_It seems that the focus of the dream is the she-angels. _

_One of them is dark in color, her nearly black skin crisscrossed with silvery scars along the forearms and chest. Her robes are low, but not to expose her generous breasts. She bears her battle wounds with more pride than she does her exotic beauty. Chocolate brown eyes cunningly dart around the room. A golden necklace rings her neck, and matching bracelets adorn her arms. Close-cropped black hair is crowned with a single circlet of gold. Her wings, though folded tightly against her back, seem to be black with metallic zebra stripes along the feathers. _

_She is in an intense discussion with an angel draped in topaz and gold. His jaw is broad and his face is arrogant even at first glance. The fragments of their intense conversation hone in the dream, allowing me to hear her rich voice and his cold one. _

_"—stubborn and insolent," the topaz angel spits. "Look around, Ariel! We have been sliced in half by your tenacious pride. The job of the females is what it has always been. Why are you now so controversial to the –"_

_"The code this, the code that," the she-angel snaps, evidently Ariel. "Look at the humans, Gabriel. Look at the one that rides the wolf, cutting down angel after angel. Her bronze eyes burn and she shows no mercy. If a female monkey can do that, than so can female angels."_

_"Why do you insist on living separately?" demands Gabriel. His grip on the delicate glass in one hand tightens. "Are you so foolish as to believe that having separate living quarters will even the balance of sexes?"_

_"So you admit there is an imbalance in sexes," Ariel presses triumphantly. "And, to answer your question, your drunken warriors are still superior to us in two respects: you are better at losing and better at drinking. When a fool with more muscles than brains drinks, she-angels pay the consequences without apology nor regret wasted upon us when they at last emerge sober."_

_"So the difficulties of maintaining drunkards have warded you off," continues Gabriel spitefully, but the conversation had already faded for me to hear the rest of his argument. The focus of my dream soon shifts from one she-angel to the other. _

_Unlike the first female angel, which had maintained a warrior-like quality like the rest of the archangels, this pale one is smaller, petite. Instead of tall, graceful, and lithe, she's rounder and seemingly carved from a much gentler substance than the marble making up the rest of the archangels. Her smile is soft, her voice high like a lullaby, and her cherry red eyes are bright with laughter. Unlike Josiah's crimson eyes, hers are gentle, dancing with dark pinks and maroons alongside the browns and reds. Her laughter is like the song of little twinkling fairies, her innocence seemingly obvious. It doesn't appear to be a mask – she seems to be a lot like Paige, honestly, with a smile and a compliment for everyone. In a world of angels, though, that could be dangerous, and I find myself fearing for her._

_The drunken angel slouching in the chair beside her does little to comfort me, considering I know him so very well. _

_Raffe swings his glass into the air, allowing dark liquid to spill over the edge of his chalice. His bare caramel skin allows clear sight of the muscles flexing sinuously beneath his silky hide, boasting upon their full, rich completion. There is nothing in his eyes but dumb drunken thoughts, nothing but emptiness. He's a hollow husk of the glorious angel Pooky Bear portrays him to be. But, although his sword thinks of him as deadly when most powerful, some primal female instinct tells me that his testosterone is being kindled by his high, and that a wrong word can lead to this innocent angel's demise or shame at Raffe's hand._

_"So… you've got all the Nephilim now?" the female questions politely, her high voice frail and melodic, like a thrush's whistling song. "After all those years of hunting?"_

_"Most of them." With slurred words and a belch, Raffe continues, spilling more alcohol onto his bare chiseled chest. "Got a few bastards that get away from me every time. Little demons think they can get away with it. Demons!"_

_"Ah." The she-angel seems increasingly uncomfortable, as if she's just now realizing a completely wasted Raffe might be dangerous to be around. I can't help but agreeing with her, praying she'll escape. "So, erm, have these Nephilim really done anything to earn the title 'demon'? They are just spawned with the Daughters of Men, are they not?"_

_I feel like screaming for her to escape while she can as Raffe's pinpoint pupils narrow even further. "They sent my men to hell. They go to hell, too."_

_"Of course." The she-angel's feet shuffle, her red roan wings awkwardly unfolding and refolding in a gesture of nervousness. "Do you have any idea where any of these Nephilim may be hiding?"_

_"Can I offer you anything more to drink, sir?" offers a new member of the conversation, voice humming with familiarity. At the sound of him, the she-angel jerks her head up, relaxing her shoulders and stilling her wings. Relief gleams in those beautiful reddish eyes, alongside softer smitten emotions. _

_Bryon steps up to Raffe in a bizarre waiter's outfit, balancing a disk stacked with fragile glass chalices on one hand. Though he looks ten years younger, in his lower twenties, it's definitely Bryon. He casts one reassuring glance in the she-angel's direction, and it dawns upon me: the she-angel believes that, should the need arise, Bryon can help fight Raffe off. Questions are quickly smothered by my interest in the continued conversation._

_"Eh? Oh, yes, just sit tight, I'll get one." Raffe drops his glass on the floor, shattering it in a million pieces and causing the liquid to puddle around his feet. "You see," he explains as he gropes the air to find another goblet of alcohol, "I've got this feeling like they're watching me." Bryon moves closer to Raffe, guiding the glasses to his blind hand. "Right under my nose."_

_The she-angel's face contorts a bit, as if she's concealing laughter behind those round cheeks. "I'm sure you'll catch them eventually," she assures, smiling at Raffe in order to allow some mirth to escape. _

_"Will that be all, sir?" Bryon questions, his civil professionalism astounding to hear in the face of the drunken Raffe._

_"No." Raffe belches again. "Leave me the tray, and then get out."_

_"Of course." Bryon gently sets it down on the table beside Raffe, within arm's reach of his awkward gropes. _

_"Of course, _sir_," Raffe corrects, face sharpening. _

_"Yes, sir," Bryon obeys, half-bowing once, before slinking backwards into the shadows with a poorly concealed smirk coloring his expression. The she-angel sucks in her cheeks, gazing intently at the floor while Raffe blabs onwards about demons and Watchers and Nephilim. She casts Bryon in the shadows one last glance before backing away from Raffe, disappearing into the crowd. _

_The most frightening thing is that Raffe continues talking, as if she'd never left._

* * *

A gentle touch on the shoulder awakens me. Moaning softly beneath my breath, I curl my back, struggling to tighten into a tighter ball and ignore the beckons of the person interrupting my dreams. After a distant chuckle, the touch comes again, prodding harder into my shoulder.

"What is it?" I whisper to the awaiting Bryon, stretching in my mess of smelly blankets like a cat.

"Your watch," he informs quietly. "I'm sorry, I waited as long as I could. Your turn now. If you get bored, you don't have to stay stationary – you can always wander; if anything is quiet enough to sneak up on Raphael and I, it deserves to catch us by surprise."

"What do you mean?" I groan as I arch my back, popping bones back into place.

"I mean you don't have to just sit on a rock for a few hours like I did." Bryon takes my hand and helps pull me to my feet. "Explore a bit, go visit Ogden in his forge, wander the halls of this fine city. If you get lost, we'll find you eventually."

"Okay." I yawn broadly, blinking the sleep from my eyes. "Where is Ogden again?"

"His forge." Bryon gestures deep into the bowels of the dark, angling his finger up the walls. In one of the ornate buildings carved into the stone, a light shines, a tunnel leading to somewhere else. I squint at the light. "You should be able to reach him with much ease. He likes being in the sunlight when he works, so he's got a place close to the surface. Lots of windows. It looks like a temple from the surface."

"Alright. I could use some sunlight." Cracking my shoulder, I peer curiously at Bryon. He's already striding off, heading towards his personal spot, but it seems necessary to stop him, to beckon him over. "Hey, Bryon?"

Pausing immediately, Bryon pivots and faces me, the bags beneath his eyes not dampening their patient glow. "Yes, Penryn?"

"I… this is going to sound weird."

Bryon chuckles dryly. "It's a bit harder than you may think to catch me off guard."

In this world of demons and angels, he has a point. But this new dreaming ability I'm developing – it seems to be a step further than this hell on earth. I hope that this talent is all just a mistake, and that my words will not register when compared to the truth.

"Well, I had a dream about you," I inform him, glancing once towards the ground once. "It was weird. I mean, it looked like one of the angel parties, but everything was unlike anything I'd seen before. You were there, a waiter, and you looked younger. A bit older than me. There was Raffe, who was wasted as hell, and this other angel with white hair."

"Ah." Bryon smiles bittersweetly. "Yes. That happened millennia ago, the first time the angels inhabited earth in my lifespan. Back then, we had a plan. It was simplistic, but it got the job done."

"What plan?"

Bryon shifts his weight, leaning on his staff. "The golden rule of human and angel interactions is this: angels don't remember humans. It is a fault of theirs. Of course, if I remembered every cow I passed while walking through a field of livestock, I would be a bit off my rocker. But then again, cows aren't trying to kill me. Back in those days, even angels recognized that clever people could have a certain danger level. A person could play a thousand roles and gain so much information. They could be the one that bitterly stabbed an angel and the one that dressed his wounds. The Wives, especially, rejoiced in this sort of deceptive warfare. I used it too – as Raphael's personal servant for, what, eight years, I could warn the Nephilim whenever he went out hunting and where he was headed. It sacrificed much of my freedom and happiness, but it hailed prosperity for the Nephilim."

I blink. "So Raffe doesn't even slightly remember that?"

Tossing up his head, Bryon laughs a little louder than necessary. "You've seen him as well as I. He knows me by the name 'Simon', my alter ego. Before he went AWOL, I was his personal servant this go-round as well. It is proof of the golden rule."

"You got rid of the angels the first time through?" I confirm, interest mounting.

"Sent them back to heaven." Bryon's expression tightens into some sort of acute pain. "Every last one of them."

"Will you do it this time, too?"

With a sly smile and blinking bronze eyes, Bryon laughs darkly. "Oh, Penryn, this time, they're not even going to have an entire year lounging on this planet."

"Alright." I nod, a sudden confidence in Bryon's abilities coming to me like a slap to the face. Two things dawn on me in absolute unison: Bryon, though he may be kind and merciful towards Raffe, has a powerful belligerence directed towards angels, and that I now respect him as the leader of our group.

* * *

**So, yeah. Bryon and Bryon's past. With all hope, he should become less of a riddle soon. There were quite a few clues as to his identity in this chapter, if you searched enough. Let's play a game and see if anyone can spot all of them. HEAR THAT? GAME RIGHT HERE. **

**What happened to FallenAngel, Melissa, Nini, Cassie? Where are your reviews? Have you died? I've been waiting for them to roll in, checking my emails as constantly as possible, but… you're lost. Oh, and Emi, welcome to the family.**

**Also: I'm on a little vacation nestled in the middle of no and where, so the Wi-Fi is scarce and weak. However, in the middle of no and where, people that do have Wi-Fi don't really know how to lock it, so all I need to do is a little sneaky behaviors and access someone else's internet. Whatever for my readers, right?**

**POLL: Sariel, the Watcher with metallic golden eyes and a coppery bronze dragon curled around his feet. Hmm. Thoughts?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	11. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

Though the climb had been strenuous, the sight awaiting me at the peak of the bejeweled towers and long carpeted stairwells is nearly as beautiful as the climb itself. Nephilim seem to be great artists and builders – it seems that nothing was treated without care, no wall left untouched by the tender fingers of creativity nor any floors left without intricate tile-work or thick carpets designed specifically for the buildup of static electricity.

But now, standing in the carved arch of a doorway leading to this fantastical room, my breath is stolen. Yellow stone carves the room up, the lazily swirling lines of the stone shaded in colors like beige and brown. The ceiling is pure glass, strong metal beams connecting the plates reinforcing the strength in each pane. The geometric design spreads fey rainbows over the soft marble floor even without the assistance of the other stained glass windows, the early morning light from above already affecting the world below.

There are three stained glass windows, as directly ahead of me as can be in a circular room. The one on the right is a monstrous black wolf with snowy white wings, inky fangs bared in a chilling grin. It stands on two legs as if attacking, in no natural position a wolf could be found in. On the other side is a white wolf with black bat wings, like a fallen angel of sorts. Its gruesome grin has a splash of red around the mouth, as if showing that, despite its somewhat calmer position, it is a killer as well. The center panel depicts a woman with two unique wings made of clockwork, her brown hair caught in a violent storm of wind.

Mouth falling open, I wander into the center of the room, eyes wide. The ethereal rainbows flutter over my skin as I reach my arms out to touch their delicate feathers. Almost as if chiding me for even attempting, they gently drift just out of reach.

But it my time of gawking is cut short by a little ovular object that rolls in through one of the adjoining arches, beeping like a time bomb.

It's copper and mechanical, matching perfectly with Hugo's steampunk theme. Rings on the surface twist and writhe, as if the machine is launching into violent spasms at the sight of me. It yelps for reassurance, the beeping growing gradually louder until it's a rude blare. At first, only annoyance is my only reaction; this is obviously Hugo's contraption, a little egg meant to protect someone from unwanted guests.

The next thought dawns on me rather aggressively, shaking my view of the annoying ovular device as it rolls to and fro across the room like a windup mouse pumped with caffeine.

My mother's eggs.

The ache in my head does not leave, even when Ogden emerges from the mouth of the same corridor. His face is smeared with ash and charcoal marks color his ratty apron. New wrenches and other assorted materials hang from his pockets, their reflections in the sunlight waving oily hellos. It's almost as if he can see my internal distress, clear across my face. The old man hobbles to my side, concern bunching his bushy eyebrows and frowning deeper than ever before.

"Ogden, what is that?" I whisper, jabbing a finger at the egg. It's stopped yelping at his presence, now quietly rolling around and slamming into stone walls.

His eyes widen, fat lips parting slightly. With mounting comprehension, Ogden turns his face back to me, a touch of sorrow coloring his thick chocolaty brown eyes. Touching a coarse hand to my shoulder, he beckons me back down the tunnel he'd appeared from, hobbling gait slowing his stride considerably. I follow numbly without a problem.

We reach another large chamber, this one darker than the last, more subject to the shadows' forlorn grip. On one side of the dark room, a smoldering forge sits, the embers growling at me with flares of orange light. Tools are aligned on hooks on a corresponding wall, and beautiful creations are being left to cool. From the ceiling hang other deft works of art, delicate metal creations created by plates of iron and silver and gold joining together to create a puppet in black, grey, or yellow. On the other side of the dark room, computers sit, screens all a mess of waiting screen bubbles. One flat screen TV seems to be hooked up to a keyboard, creating a monster computer.

Ogden strides up to the immaculate computers. Hunching over, his fingers rattle over the keys. Words appear on the large screen, easily readable.

_The Eggs are one of Hugo's inventions. They're relatively small and unnoticeable, with many different settings. They're used to protect people._

I swallow, choking down the lump in my throat. "Ogden… did you ever meet my mother on any of your wanders?"

Guilt consumes his face, but his expression is quickly dominated with an ancient pity. Turning back to the computer screens, he types slowly, each peck of a key chosen carefully.

_I've never met her. Your father, I have, but not your mother. Hugo did do business with your mother. She bought a dozen of the Eggs to protect her baby – I guess you – from something. Apparently, she never said what. _

"Probably because 'it' never existed," I mutter darkly, but in such a low volume that Ogden couldn't possibly hear it if he tried. Clearing my throat, I inquire, "How did you know my father? Was he involved in… all this?"

It seems logical that my mom would trust the mendacious boy with steampunk inventions and a giant wolf plodding around his feet, but not my dad. The man refused to read us my favorite fairytale as a kid; it was one about a valiant knight slaying a malevolent dragon, but he never got past his prejudice against fantasy. Personally, I think Mom's demons scared him even further into disbelief.

The words on screen puzzle me further.

_Your father was a very clever man. He and Hugo would scheme together like a pair of supervillains. However, your dad was much more into modern electricity and technology and things, while Hugo – need I even say? Hugo wanted his steampunk. Like Hugo, your father had me make his parts. We spoke often, until he domesticated and started toning the fantasy down to live with your mom, to have you and your sister. If he never told you about his other life, I can't, either. I'm not the right person. Forgive me._

Swiveling away from the keyboard, Ogden stares at me with large brown eyes and a pleading expression I simply can't ignore.

"Who would be the right person?" I sigh.

_Family would probably be the best to inform you._

"Alright," I grumble grouchily, waving a hand in reluctant defeat. Even if she knows something about my father before he dated her, she'd never say. "What are you doing, anyway?"

_Making parts for Hugo. He wants another tempered sword ready, for whatever reason. Hugo fights with a bow. Also, he wants me to prepare feathers for Bryon – don't even ask about that._

"He's strange," I intone, shrugging. "I'm mostly just glad that Scruffy's okay. Hey, do you know about the stained glass windows in that main room there? I saw a few similar symbols climbing up here."

Ogden nods knowingly, prodding a finger to the sky. _Some sort of universal symbol thing. It's one of the Nephilim beliefs or traditions or something – it traditionally protects a place. The figures are supposed to represent how life really is. Good cloaked in black and bad cloaked in white, that sort of thing – since they're usually visualized as monsters, Nephilim are into the whole "don't judge a book by its cover thing". The woman is the Clockwork Angel. _

"What is the –" Ogden extends a hand to tell me he understands, hushing my question.

_The Clockwork Angel is more a legend than anything else. An old wives' tale._ Ogden smirks as if he'd just amused himself. _Supposedly, it's an ordinary woman with a pair of lightweight wings made of clockwork. There have been numerous "sightings" throughout the centuries, leading some to believe that the Clockwork Angel has power over time. Many of the Nephilim respect her as a god, a prophecy that's certain to come true – evidently, in the darkest hour when their light has gone out, she'll come. Hugo wants to be the one to make the "time-traveling" wings, so he's devoted himself to create the perfect pair of clockwork-type wings. I've got a pair, I brought them up here to study the gears. They're against the wall there._ He gestures towards a shadowed corner of the room.

Curiosity mounts as I stride over the place Ogden had waved me into, eyes widening at the sight of what almost seems like a backpack of black metal. Cautiously, I squat beside it. The gears beneath tick at me, almost as if it's trying to frighten me off. Long, slender iron strips like feathers hide the gears.

Ogden's lumbering footsteps warn me of his approach. Looping two fingers through a black leather strap, he lifts the contraption effortlessly, hefting it to a nearby table to rest it upon. Smiling invitingly at me, he begins to unfurl the beautiful set.

It's a strange thing, both wings having a rather magnificent pulchritude about them. The wings of the machine are meant to be folded on the back like a pack, hidden until actual use. Separate of this metal masterpiece are two long iron rods to be strapped along the backs of the arms, with gears at the joints to allow smooth movement. The pack, which is meant to be stationed firmly between the shoulder blades and stretching down to the lower back, is attached to these rods by the crests of the wings. As the wings unfurl, a set of tiny wheels follow grooves on the rods until it unfolds at a massive length and locks into position. I see now that, while in the pack, the wings hadn't just been folded, but instead, all the feathers had been pancaked on top of one another. As Ogden demonstrates, the long pieces of metal used for the primary feathers are nearly five feet in length. The length of the one wing he fully unfurls is nearly fifteen feet from feathertip to joint.

"Hugo made this?" I breathe, not quite connecting these beautiful shining works of art to that puerile face. Ogden nods in confirmation, shrugging to show his own bewilderment.

"How do they work?" My curiosity burns. "It looks too heavy to fly, and, even if the wings followed that rod thing, it'd be difficult to navigate. Also, do you have to unfurl them every time?"

Ogden's fingers rummage the place where the two wings meet for a moment until he touches a button and the other wing flies out to its full capacity, hissing with a _schnick_ of blades. The distant feathertips smash against the stone wall with an irritating clang. He quickly bundles it again, pulling the wing back into its neat position. Then he extends the pack to me.

"You want me to pick that up?" I retreat, throwing up my hands in surrender. "No way. I'm not a bodybuilder."

Ogden grins like a schoolboy and holds the contraption in one hand as if to tease me, still gesturing for me to pick it up.

With a hearty sigh, I secure my hands through the leather straps, gripping the metallic feathers tightly and spreading my legs wide to hold the bulk. Bracing myself for the load of metal about to be mercilessly dumped onto my shoulders, I glance testily at Ogden only to realize that he'd already released the wings, and is standing back with a victorious smirk.

I'm holding the full weight of the wings, and I doubt I'd even need one hand.

With a surprised laugh, I rise from my labored pose, balancing the delicate work of art in my arms. The gleaming feathers are sharpened like razors, as I quickly learn by nicking my finger on a blade. It doesn't really seem to matter – this is unlike nothing I've ever felt before, light as air.

"What is this metal?" I whisper in awe, shifting the wings in my arms. "It seems like it would shatter at the slightest breeze."

Ogden throws up his head laughing. There is a jolly tone thundering in that mirthful chuckle that has me feeling like a fool, as if it's a silly question. Still chortling to himself, Ogden lumbers over to his tool table. An argument blossoms on my tongue as he lifts the largest hammer of them all, turning back to the wings with a glint in his eye.

Ogden slams the head of the hammer into the unfurled wing, the force of his blow sending me stumbling, but, where the hammer had smashed the wing into the ground, there is nothing. Recovering from my falter, I see that the wing hadn't been dented at all. Disbelief rounds my eyes.

"Seriously." I shake my head in awe. "What is this metal?"

Winking at me, Ogden holds his finger to his lips.

* * *

"Raaaffe," I whisper in a singsong tone of voice, drawing out the vowels while poking his cheek. "Oh… _Raaaaaffe_."

His snores don't even falter, continuing on like an elephant being repeatedly ground into pavement with a bulldozer. Drool leaks from the edges of his lips, untidy black hair more a rat's nest than its usual shampoo commercial perfection. The wild splay of his limbs is mildly adorable, in the way a sleeping tiger is sweet – though the cat may be harmless for the time being, wise prey animals still keep their distance.

I suppose that, in the jungle, I wouldn't be a very wise prey animal.

Prodding my finger into his cheek again, I gently poke at the corners of his slack mouth. My voice rises to a pitch it's never hit before on the next singsong taunt. "_Raaaaaaaaffe_."

This time, his snore trembles, and he mutters something in his sleep. I bite the inside of my cheek to contain my laughter, but a small giggle escapes me. Fearing that it might've awakened him, I still. Tenseness keeps me quiet as a mouse. However, as time passes by, Raffe only snores louder than previously, seemingly shaking the earth.

Leaning forward until I'm hovering over his face, I cup one hand on his cheek. "Raffe," I breathe, his name curt one my tongue. He mumbles something unintelligible again, facial expression contorting and relaxing.

I don't even try to conceal my laughter, despite the fact that Scruffy lifts his head from his peaceful sleep. My confidence with the sleeping Raffe grows. Resting my hand on his chest, I bow my head, lips at his ear. "Raaaffe."

Blue peeks through his eyelids, and Raffe awakens with a jolt. Groaning and rubbing at his eyes, Raffe props himself up on one elbow, wings stirring like two tar pools shifting in the darkness. He blinks, staring up at my smirking face – then collapses with a moan, putting a hand over his eyes.

"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," I tease, prodding him in the temple. "It's your turn to watch."

"How much was I drooling?" he sighs, dragging his hand from his eyes. The barest remain of smoldering embers casts beautiful light on his face, illuminating his full lips and expressive eyes more than ever. Despite the shimmering path his drool had left in its wake, I find his appearance rather arousing, with tousled hair and a dazed gaze – Raffe's morning face is something I wouldn't mind seeing more often.

"A lot." I mask my complex train of thoughts with a smirk. "I won't even mention the snoring. You woke Scruffy up."

"His poor unfortunate soul," Raffe mutters darkly, closing his eyes once more. "A pity you had to see me like this. It'll put a dent in my reputation."

"Aw," I coo, patting his arm in feigned consolation, "don't worry! You look like a little tiger after a long nap. Sleepy and confused and _so_ cute."

One eye of his peels open to stare at me, the dark smirk toying with his lips fostering many a dirty thought. "You compare me to a tiger?" The air hisses and Raffe's form blurs; that is all I know, until a pair of blue eyes are directly before mine. Tingling heat spans the scarce gap. His nasty breath caresses my chin and throat. "I can't imagine why. Would you mind telling me why you think of me as the king of beasts?"

I lean forward slightly instead of balking from his demonstration of his physical prowess. Malaise is now my friend instead of my enemy as Raffe's gaze swims abruptly with uneasiness.

"The lion is the king," I whisper, smiling at him. "The tiger's just the strongest, and the biggest."

"You're right about that," Raffe purrs in the most licentious manner, grinning torridly, his hands slowly skating over the ground to land on the tops of my thighs. My skin crawls and my belly rocks. His statement makes it that much harder to focus on an impervious answer.

"You've got no way to prove that," I point out triumphantly, smirking and cocking my head. With each breath he takes, his broad shoulders flex and muscles bulge.

His hands lethargically climb my thighs, gently roaming up until they rest at my hips. I could be imagining it, but I do believe he inches slightly closer as he cocks his head opposite of mine. "Don't I?"

"Get a room!" Hugo snaps sleepily.

The brusque statement breaks a mood, as if he'd shattered one of the beautiful stained windows from upstairs. Raffe leans away from me, and I blush and scoot further from him. Scruffy still pants with a sloppy, drooling grin, but now, Hugo is awake, too, with a scowl instead of a smile.

"I swear," he grumbles, "there is nothing like two little lovebirds to ruin your sleep. This is the second time. I'm not amused." With a huff, he rolls over, facing the wall. Bemusedly, Scruffy licks his master's ear, as if questioning why he'd gotten so ticked.

Raffe turns back to me awkwardly, his apologetic smile somehow still winsome, despite all the tension in the air. "I'll take watch, then. Get some sleep. You've earned it."

I release a massive yawn, roaring like a tiger myself. "My original plan was to talk to you about loyalties and our current travelling partners and such, but I guess that won't be happening. You just had to wake Hugo up."

"Me?" Raffe's eyebrows lift, displaying his disbelief like a page on a book. "Excuse you, you were the one gasping like a fish out of water."

"I was not gasping," I berate, scowling at him. "You're imagining things."

"Hmm. Maybe. Truthfully, I'm not even sure why you wanted to talk – we're such a good group, the camaraderie is just –"

"I didn't really want to say anything in hopes that you would quiet down," Bryon sighs tiredly, "but Raphael, you're quite loud. Please, I've got to go on watch again."

My voice drops a bit in volume. "Oops. Sorry."

"Get some sleep," Raffe whispers, pulling at a blanket from the place he'd been resting in. With a gentle grip and a soft touch, he eases me to the ground, snuggling me down in his nest. Contentment shines in his eyes as he stares down at me, bundled up like a child.

"I can't move," I inform him, kicking slightly at the raggedy blankets.

"Good," he chuckles, rising. Raffe towers over me like a god, or perhaps a devil. The shadows claim most of his black wings, leaving only the crests to be illuminated by the firelight. Only his eyes gleam. "Now I won't have to worry about you running off. Try to sleep, Penryn, we'll most likely be… doing something tomorrow. Something that requires energy."

"So specific," I mutter, but I nestle tighter into Raffe's nest of blankets. He pads off like a shadow, disappearing into the darkness without a glance back. It's almost as if he is a predator, searching for prey without realizing one's reclining in his den. Sighing deeply, I shut my eyes, relaxing into his bed.

Beneath the wolf odor and the pungent reek of oil, I can't help but notice that Raffe's blankets smell an awful lot like him.

* * *

**Anonymous won the little contest here, even though all the results haven't rolled in. **

**I could add more to this chapter, but I feel like here's a good stopping point. You'll see why next chapter. **

**Hugo is hiding more secrets, this time about Penryn's father and mother. But he did introduce as one to have secrets and not share them, so can we be surprised? No. No we cannot.**

**POLL: The Raffryn, the sweet, sweet Raffryn! Although I love writing it, I try to make it realistic – which means no pointless Raffryn. How do you think I'm doing on Raffryn writing and maintaining each character's personality?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

I laugh at the image on the paper. It shows Scruffy as some sort of mer-wolf, his hind legs a tail rather than paws. The utmost delight on the wolf's face is hilarious.

"Believe it or not," Hugo calls, lifting the torch a bit higher, "that actually became a thing after I posted it online. People started drawing mermaid everyone: mermaid Gabriel, mermaid Thea, mermaid Bryon – oh, man, yours was hilarious." He slaps Bryon on the shoulders with brotherly affection, chuckling heartily to himself. "The caption was: Still no wings."

"They should've given me wings," Bryon sighs with a note of yearning in his voice. "Somebody should draw fan art with me and wings instead of me with a fish tail. I want wings so bad. And no matter how many times I cleverly hint at it, it never happens."

"Really?" As I flip to the next page in Hugo's sketchbook, I meet Bryon's wistful gaze. "You want wings? Why would you like six limbs?"

"Everyone has wings!" Bryon complains pertinaciously, shaking his head from side to side. "I've got artificial wings, of course, but they're a bit of a pain when you need to escape in the nick of time. No, I want real wings, flesh and blood and feathers – or bat wings, I suppose, but that's hardly favorable. Most of all, I want to _fly_. Every other respectable creature has wings. It's not fair."

"Aww," Hugo coos with saccharine empathy, "is it mid-life crisis? Do we need you to find a doctor?"

"Enough of this subject," Bryon cuts off, blatantly refusing to continue. His winglessness must be a tender topic. "What else has he drawn in his precious sketchbook? Anything of interest?"

Since I'm the only one light enough for Scruffy to carry, this morning, Hugo had offered me to ride him during our trek today – apparently, Bryon was going to keep us swiftly moving, which he is. Perched on Scruffy's back, leaning against his neck, I'd been rather comfortable for the entire trip – if Paige feels sleepy, we'll either switch or she'll climb into Bryon's arms. However, it's been rather boring on the wolf's back, until I started rifling through a few of Hugo's things and found the sketchbook. He'd said I could take a look, and so I did.

Now, I flip back through the pages I've already viewed, searching for a particular image. "There was one of Scruffy as a human and Hugo as a wolf. That was pretty interesting."

"Oh, yes!" Delight sugars Hugo's voice. "My wolves! That became a thing, too – everyone was drawing everybody as wolves, and all wolves as people. Strange, it was actually one of my first drawings, Scruffy as a human. I was just a curious little boy that was trying to show the world how I thought Scruffy would look."

Long lashes quivering, Bryon gasps and turns to Hugo. "I remember that!" he rejoices. "He looked a lot like your brother, didn't he?"

"Yeah," Hugo realizes in a startled tone of voice. "Yeah, I suppose he does. I suppose Scruffy reminds me of my brother, in a way." He pats Scruffy's flank, grinning warmly at the wolf. In turn, his mutt licks up the side of Hugo's face.

"What's the story with you two, anyway?" Flipping back to my prior position in the huge sketchbook, I continue rifling through the pictures, awed by the emotion caught in each pencil drawing. "Not Scruffy and you, but your brother. You don't seem to talk very much about him."

"Well…" Hugo scratches at the back of his neck, discomfort found in his exhale of breath. "It brings back childhood memories, y'know? But I trust you now, congrats, so I suppose I'll fess up. As a prize. To give away a secret."

I lean forward eagerly, smiling encouragingly at him, an action prompted more by curiosity than any whim of compassion for his stage fright.

Hugo swallows, resting one hand on Scruffy's flank for inspiration. "What happened is he was nice to a hurt she-angel that crash-landed in our backyard. But even after she was better, she kept coming back, you know? Like there was something our pathetic village had to offer her. After a few visits, it was clear that she had fallen in love with my brother. Now, even though he wasn't the slightest bit interested in her, the archangels got all pissed when they caught wind of that. Like, severely pissed. Apparently, even though she-angels are barren and can't produce any Nephilim, love was and is strictly forbidden.

"So they released hellfire on our little village to exterminate my brother, killing everyone living there in the process. Everyone but me. There was flame – flame everywhere. I'll have to show a clip of hellfire from YouTube, it's really, really scary and supernatural. People were swallowed whole by the beasts brought to life by the inferno. I only survived because – he and I were – I was – well, we were running from the hellfire, my brother and I, and we'd almost made it…" Hugo takes a deep breath, remaining quiet for a second.

"You don't have to continue," Bryon consoles, placing a broad hand on Hugo's shoulder. The veracious sympathy and raw pain in his own gaze tells that he, too, had experienced tragedy from the event.

"I owe it to Penryn to finish up." Hugo squares his shoulders and looks me in the eye. "I fell behind. I was only six or so, of course I did. The fire was snarling at my feet, and one of its claws sank into my heel – ever heard the term Achilles' heel? – and dragged me to the ground. I don't really remember what happened there – it was going really fast and such, plus I was facing extreme agony. But I do remember my brother grabbing my foot where the fire had got me, and it spreading to him instead. I remember his tortured expression as the hellfire engulfed him, and his anguished screams as the fiery monsters sliced into his soul."

"The hellfire demons are merciless," murmurs Raffe, something close to empathy coloring his tone. "They dance in hell itself, and deal out death with every roar."

"Yeah." Hugo nods, eyes swimming with the ghosts of his past. "Yeah, what you said. Those bastards got Ivan. The she-angel that'd fallen for him swooped down and scooped me up, taking me far from the danger radius. She broke down crying afterwards, and wouldn't respond to any stimulus. I was bawling, too, but I knew I had to get out of there before more angels or more hellfire arrived. Scruffy appeared for the first time, that little kooky wolf. He just sort of popped up on the distant ridge and loped over to me. I'm not really sure why I trusted him, I just know I did. Scruffy took me to Bryon, and the rest… the rest is history. I drank Nephilim blood to extend my life, so I could hunt down the angels that killed my brother."

"Nephilim blood?" Raffe's inquisitiveness is clear in his blue eyes. "That extends human life?"

"Uh huh." Hugo's head bobs in confirmation. "Certain Nephilim live long lives, right? Well, when certain humans – it doesn't always work, not on all people – drink Nephilim blood, they have long lives, too. Some sort of reaction in the blood. I don't know, it's hard to study, haven't been able to nail it down yet. The Wives drank some, that's why a lot of them are still around. Must've been awkward, to suck some blood from your son's arm. But we're getting off point. I decided revenge wasn't worth. I became a semi-peaceful wanderer with a hate for archangels. And here I am today."

"Oh." I don't know what to say to that. An awkward silence consumes the moment.

"The she-angel you spoke of," Raffe proposes slowly, "was her name Janiel?"

Hugo purses his lips, brow furrowing. "You know, I can't be certain, but I think so. We always used to just call her by nicknames, things like 'Feathers' or 'Pigeon'."

"Janiel was insane." Raffe's voice is dark. "She went insane, at least. That she-angel was responsible for nearly a hundred angelic deaths. She had the skulls all stacked up against one wall, the feathers of the particular angel glued to the bone with their own body fluids. If we hadn't discovered her, she would've exterminated an entire aerie."

"It's a funny thing, what people will do for love," Bryon thrums, his mercurial gaze distant, "and what they'll do to avenge a love lost."

Awkwardly, I turn back to the sketchbook as everyone else falls silent. The frayed pages all hold something special: Jane and Scruffy loping side by side, a lion and a wolf reclining in the sun, an angel caught in flight, multiple sexy pictures of Bay and diagrams of Bay's wings, a detailed dragon's eyeball close-up, and a terrifying demon with ruby red lips.

"What the hell." My voice raises a pitch, adopting a reedy quality. Raffe looks at me with a question in his eyes. In response, I lift Hugo's notebook to show the picture of the demon.

"Oh." Embarrassment colors Hugo's voice. "That. Yeah, it's my attempt on drawing Lucius – it's difficult because to look into his eyes causes madness. Unfortunately, that's his deal with many travelers. Lucius likes madness a lot."

"I've heard of Lucius," Raffe acknowledges with a nod of his head. "There are many rumors, including that he's Satan's son. My men would brag about glimpsing him beneath the willow grow he was supposed to haunt, but they were all so wasted they were just seeing things."

"He's the son of Satan, yeah," Hugo approves, smiling at Raffe's drunk warriors. "Sort of like an anti-Nephilim. Believe it or not, he's got a brother that's even more gruesome looking. But does Luther try to lure souls down into hell or torture humans into insanity? No. No, he does not. He actually is a YouTube gamer, but he always wears a mask. The 'V For Vendetta' mask. Cool guy. I like him."

My fingers trace the disturbing image sketched onto the paper. Lucius has a sharp, angular face, as if blades are implanted beneath his deathly pale skin, ready to slice through at the slightest prod. Everything about him is white – white skin, white hair, white suit – except his horrid eyes, his black wings, and his red lips. The glossy crimson lips and pinpoint scarlet pupils are the only real colors on the page, vividly exaggerated by the plaintive black and white setting. His smile stretches to an unnatural width, almost like the Joker's crazy grin. The black wings splayed slightly behind him are even more hellish than Raffe's – instead of a mere row of scythes, all of Lucius's wings are covered in little hooks and needles, like sheets of thorns. The eyes aren't truly eyes at all – two inky beetles are caught mid-twitch in the pits of his face, their legs his eyelashes. Two red specks on the oily shells are evidently meant to be the pupils. His appearance sends a shiver through me, a shiver that sparks Scruffy's curiosity.

Scruffy mewls with a question, twisting his head about. From my perch on his back, I pat his shoulder reassuringly. I rock to his gait, leaning against his neck. Huffing with contentment as I apparently hit the perfect spot on his shoulder, Scruffy relaxes once more, plodding onward just the same.

"He's an ugly fellow," Raffe harrumphs. "Looks like he's wearing lipstick, doesn't it?"

Hugo throws his head back in a laugh. "Truth be told, I'm not totally sure he doesn't wear lipstick. Imagine that, though: son of Satan, going through his average beautifying procedure." His laugh grows more boisterous. "If somebody did a tutorial, I would marry them."

"Looks like blood to me," I comment skeptically, not seeing wear their lipstick angle could come in.

"That's more likely the answer," Bryon sighs grimly. "I suppose we can ask him."

My skin crawls, my gaze landing on Bryon's broad back. In a low, dangerous tone, Raffe inquires, "What do you mean by that?"

Instead of Bryon, Hugo speaks up again. "Lucius is a deal-maker, a lot like me. He can give you almost anything, anything in the universe, but he requires something in return. And the deals are always barbed; in the end, it's only ever Lucius that wins. At least I'm somewhat honest. We're in the company of the only person who's ever forged a successful bargain with him."

Eyes growing wide, I turn to Bryon and his impassive tranquility. "You?" I whisper.

Bryon snickers richly, glancing over his shoulder at me. "I'm too much of a softie to deal with demons – that, I know. No, Ogden's done it before."

Ogden beams at me and waves, flailing his broad palm through the air.

"So, why are we going to be able to ask Lucius about his lips?" Raffe repeats, eyes narrowed. The tips of his scythes peak slightly from his black wings, itching to emerge.

"Because he should be more willing to cooperate," explains Bryon with a tone of reluctance directed towards his plan, "if we have Penryn with us. You see, Paige is like nothing I've ever seen before – sorry, child, it's true." He strokes my baby girl's hair from her face in apology, taking her little hand in his. "However, Lucius will be able to heal her and tell us how to help other people like Paige. We could save not only your sister, Penryn, but all the other children as well if we risk a little bit."

The only thing breaking the awkward silence is Bryon's tapping staff and Scruffy's jovial pants. All eyes fly towards me, and the aura shifts. This idea could be vetoed within a moment by my rule, and everyone would be sent scrabbling for a new strategy. Or I could consent, and risk my neck with this fearsome demon creature.

"It sounds like an okay plan," I decide uncertainly, "and I trust that it must be the only option. But I don't understand one thing – you said it'd be easier if you had me with you to negotiate, right? What the hell does that mean?"

Hugo's voice is oddly crackly. "Do you remember when I told you I was afraid of your mother's demon?"

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My hand, which had been caressing Scruffy gently, knots tightly in his fur. I meet Hugo's coppery gaze, staring deep into the pools of reluctance and hidden fear.

"No," I whisper. "No way."

"Yes," sighs Bryon in an ancient tone of voice. "Yes way."

"You see," Hugo explains gently, "your mother was in a very… unique situation. The key to handling Lucius is not to succumb to what he desires, not to put him in any sort position of power, no way to con you. She never – never was the most stable of women, even when she did work for the government. And, well, this has probably never come up in a fireside conversation, but your father quite literally died once. Flat line. Soul was elsewhere. From what he'd been able to figure after hearing her babbling afterwards, Lucius had appeared to her with that goddamned deck of cards and offered her a deal. He would revive her lost loved one if she… did something. I don't know, he always keeps his deals secretive. Probably would've gone pretty smoothly if she hadn't looked into his eyes and… you know the rest."

Scruffy whines once, bringing about the realization that I'm ripping his fur from his shoulder. My fists only unclench slightly, still remaining tense. Sweat beads over my forehead, and my hands shiver and shake. "You're telling me my mother's demon… existed. That there's actually things that hunt her. That it could be the reason she hurt Paige."

"It's a lot to take in." Bryon slows his pace, striding beside Scruffy. One of his broad hands covers mine, the warm, coarse flesh somewhat of a comfort. His eyes are molten bronze, their softness incomparable. "This world can be overwhelming. I've seen many facing first realization with much less dignity than you."

My vision blurs, the light swirling with each of Scruffy's strides. "She really is crazy," I whisper.

"As a loon bird," mutters Hugo sagaciously. Bryon's staff is a blur of brown wood as it smacks Hugo rather soundly between the legs, but his gaze does not falter, bronze eyes still locked onto mine.

"She would've done it a second time," Bryon says in a quiet, apologetic tone of voice. "I know she would've. But I was afraid she would offer something more than herself to Lucius. I couldn't let her do that. No." Towards the end, he almost sounds like he's convincing himself.

"And after all of that," I curse bitterly, eyes stinging, "he still left her. My father still left us."

"Oh, Penryn." Bryon's eyes swim, and, for the first time, he looks away, keeping secrets still. There is grief pulling his mouth into a thin line. "He didn't want to. He did not want to at all."

"I need a moment," I inform him after a second of silence. "Nothing too long, but somewhere… somewhere where no one can hear me, okay?"

Page ambles up and hops, her cold fingers brushing mine and Bryon's. Undoubtedly sensing my distress. Of course she'd like to console me. Because that's what Paige does. She consoles people, even when I should be consoling her about those awful stitches.

"Let her have a moment alone." Raffe's voice is surprising after such a long period, gruff and adamant. He appears on my opposite side, blue eyes as hard as stone, not releasing an inkling of emotion. "She deserves it."

Hugo slaps Scruffy's haunches firmly, propelling the wolf over the stone. "Go take her somewhere far off. Don't come back until she does."

With a huff of breath, Scruffy starts to trot a little faster, limping with his bandage and veering from the group. Bryon's hand is dragged off mine, and Paige's is taken with it. Paige's round eyes seem to capture the poignancy of the moment in two reflective pools fringed by her long, doelike lashes, whereas Bryon's expression holds mystery and the tickle of a distant sorrow. Hugo waves teasingly, his smirk as uncannily knowledgeable as ever. Raffe's face is blank, but the barest lick of farewell glints in his eyes.

I wave half-heartedly, wiggling my fingers in goodbye. Scruffy plods deep into the belly of the Nephilim Temple, as if he knows the tunnels and bridges better than he'd let on.

On the main path, the Chaza had allowed extraordinary sights and beautiful architectural feats. Illuminated by the dim glow of small holes in the high ceilings and Hugo's torch, I'd seen statues and arches and palaces carved from jewels. The regal beauty of the Nephilim Temple had forced me to respect the once-were inhabitants. But that had only been the main street, the primary route. As Scruffy expertly scales steep stairways and lopes up slick ramps, I'm introduced to another revolutionary style.

As the dots of the gang disappear far below us, plants and stones glowing begin to appear. A broad flower with a golden trumpet sparkles with luminescent pollen, releasing a cloud of glowing dust into the air as Scruffy's paw brushes against it. Though I gawk, the wolf does not falter in his stride. He takes me into a long corridor with one wall of arches peering down far below at the main street where the men used to be, now trekking onward, and the other wall a sheet of diamond waterfalls gurgling like frogs. The waterfalls spill into a pond filled with massive koi fish and wide lily pads with shining blue blossoms. At the end of the corridor is another set of stairways, and this time, the opals set into the wall glow.

Perhaps one of the most incredible factors of the Nephilim Temple is the way it's organized. The main road we'd been travelling on before leads from cavern to cavern, each cave room as large as a town. Wrapping around the walls of the caverns are house after house, dotted with shops and restaurants and all sorts of little hole-in-the-wall places. It makes me wonder just how many Nephilim had lived among us before the angels took root nearby.

Scruffy continues to scale the buildings, occasionally skipping a level by scrabbling up the wall to another stairwell. I'm not sure where he's headed, but it's fairly peaceful, trotting along with the light of the incandescent sources. The gait he travels at is soothing to my whirlwind of thoughts. I collapse into him, resting fully on his neck and shutting my eyes, letting the wolf lead the way. Clutching his fur for any stability, I find myself trusting Scruffy more than I ever had before. After what seems like a blissful eternity of walking, he pauses, and woofs to me. It's almost as if we've reached our destination, as if Scruffy is through wandering.

Peeling my eyes open, I glance around the room he'd entered. Everything is lit by a soft yellow light, filtering through from a crack in the ceiling – perhaps a bed of golden flowers is above us, and the pollen's luminance shines through. Or maybe we're at the top of the cavern, and that's sunlight I see. But this corridor has no windows or any way for me to tell where exactly we are in the terms of height.

"What is this place, Scruffy?" I whisper, pulling myself into an upright position on his saddle. My fingers sink into the rugged leather. "Where did you take me?"

Scruffy releases a huff in response, shaking out his mane. Whining and limping a few steps, he waves his leg around to show that his shoulder's aching.

Oh. So this isn't some mysterious room that Scruffy's been trying to show me. He's just tired of walking.

Somewhat disappointed and somewhat amused, I dismount from him, feet hitting the marble floor with a pins-and-needles sensation. Scruffy sighs deeply, lumbering over to one of the ornate walls and collapsing against it. I laugh quietly as he closes his eyes, causing his tail to thump against the floor.

"Sleep well, puppy dog," I whisper, turning my attention to the rest of the corridor Scruffy had lead me to. "This place should entertain me."

The room is a mural, from start to finish – the long hallway is painted in the classic style, depicting all sorts of monsters and demons and angels on the walls. It's almost like an amalgamation of all the Nephilim fabled heroes, or legendary warriors or something. There is no holy feeling here, but rather a sense that this place was tread often before it was abandoned. Lonely, sad, and longing to be seen again – and happy, happy to host people once more.

At the end of the hall, that insignia – the two wolves and the Clockwork Angel – appears again, a few colossal unlit candles ringing the three figures. Curiously, I roam down, eyes wandering over the paintings until something catches my gaze.

I walk right up to the wall, staring into the angel's eyes. A ribbon carrying a title rests above his head, like in most old fashioned paintings. "So, you're Lion. Lion and She Wolf." I frown. "Is Lion a codename for that Saw-ree-el angel? Because you look a lot like him."

The two figures, one a golden angel and the other a woman with a bronze and brown color pallet, don't respond. They both are about as tall as the length between my fingertips to my elbow, and both are surrounded by a swarm of other angels with a woman counterpart – all the Watchers and Wives, I suppose. I stare closer at Sariel's wife for a moment, memorizing the hostile expression on the woman's face, her hair flailing melodramatically, and the crimson blood dripping off her long pair of narrow blades. "If that's Sariel, you must be his wife, huh? You look pretty tough. I wonder what your real name is, Mrs. She Wolf."

Scruffy sighs heavily, the sound echoing through the long chamber. I glance back at him. "You're right. Talking to myself is pretty pathetic, isn't it? How about from now on, I'm talking to you…"

Scruffy sighs even louder.

"Okay, okay," I chuckle, rolling my eyes. "I suppose it's still pretty pathetic. But I'll go insane if I don't speak in this deathly quiet place. I'm keeping myself entertained, right? Not thinking about mom or hellfire or Lucius or – _hey_, look, it's Bryon."

I cross the hall, going diagonal from She Wolf and Lion to look at Bryon's painting. Obviously, it was done by somebody who admires Bryon. His staff is held by calloused hands, and slightly exaggerated muscles are clearly visible beneath his shirt. Though it maintains his appearance, it puts him in a handsome light – his cloak is caught in the wind, and his eyes are painted in metallic bronze dye.

"Look at this." I tap the paint gently at his name, the old art cracking at my touch. "Dragon King. He wasn't kidding. I thought it might be Dragon, or something like that, just with King attached by some people. Huh." I frown, fingers skating over the painting to the pretty white-haired she-angel beside him. Her cherry red eyes awaken some sort of memory. "'Wish'. Huh. Is that her codename? She's never come up in a conversation before. Those red wings are kind of pretty, I guess." My frown deepens. "I wonder if they had a thing. Bryon doesn't seem like he'd be into angels or anything."

Scruffy snorts incredulously, as if he's really listening to me.

"Okay, okay," I laugh. "I suppose I don't know enough about him. Heck, I know next to nothing about him. Man of mystery, isn't he? He could be into angels, for all I know. Maybe. Is Hugo on here anywhere? Or Ogden? Wait, there's Ogden."

Ambling over to the drawing, I peer at Ogden. His outfit is different than it is now, but otherwise, it's the same Ogden. "Bear. I suppose I could see that. He's so, so strong, and a bit timid. Plus, he did get ticked at Hugo that one time, and his temper was a bit bearlike. Yeah, I suppose he could be Bear. I would've chosen Ox, personally. I have no clue what they'll call Hugo, that little trickster. Oh, look, you and Hugo right next to Ogden. Are those two associated together?"

Studying Hugo, I find that he's got a few of those Eggs rolling around his feet. His outfit is different as well, a scrappy top hat matching a fancy butler's suit with pocket watches and quilted patches at the elbows. The cocky smile on his face is captured with astounding skill. Scruffy is behind him, the wolf's grin somehow seized in dye flawlessly.

"You don't have a title, Scruffy," I whisper, fascinated by the artwork, "but Hugo is 'Monkey'. Is that where the nickname started? Or maybe he took it gratefully?"

Scruffy huffs an exasperated sigh, as if I'd hit it on the nose. I throw my head back with a laugh. "I wonder why you don't have a title. There's a She Wolf, why isn't there a Wolf?"

His movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. I turn to face him just as his head rises, and his nostrils flare. Ears swiveling to my direction, he widens his eyes. A thundering grunt rumbles from his chest. With a sigh, he relaxes back against the wall.

"Did that mean that there is a Wolf?" Curiously, I peer around the room, searching for the little mural. "Where? Are you going to tell me, or just leave me to search?"

Scruffy peels one eye open, his scathing exasperation glinting in the coppery layers.

"Right." I nod, blushing. "You can't tell me. You can't speak. But you knew that. Can you help me or anything? Or are you just dysfunctional right now?"

Grunting and growling, Scruffy hefts himself to his feet, rumbling at me. His paws thud over the earth. He shakes out his cinnamon fur, ruffling his mane. Snarling once at the bothersome cast trapping his shoulder, he lumbers to my side, breath tickling the side of my neck. I wait for some hint of where to search as he stills, but the wolf only stares at me expectantly.

"What?" I blink at him. "Am I missing something obvious?"

Scruffy jerks his head towards the place he'd been relaxing all over with utter defeat on his face.

"Oh." I stride over to the wall with a crimson blush heating my face. "I totally knew that."

On first glance, there is no Wolf – I see Bull and Parrot and Coyote and Raven and, strangely enough, Unicorn, but I do not see Wolf. "Where is this wolf?" I murmur, gently stroking the wall. My gaze tilts slightly to the right, and I see him.

My heart stops.

_WOLF_

And beneath that beige ribbon with the text clearly printed upon it, with intense blue eyes and black tousled hair, is my father.

"No." I collapse to my knees, touching the old paint and rubbing the imprints of the brushstrokes. "No way. That's…" I turn to Scruffy as he pads up beside me, reaching one hand up caress his cheek. "That's my father."

"So it is." For a bizarre second, I believe that Scruffy has responded to me with a borrowed voice – but then logic crashes back into me, and I turn to the mouth of the mural room to catch sight of the two bronze eyes.

Bryon tips his head. "Apologies for barging in. I had a feeling Scruffy might've taken you here, this painting room. There's one in every Chaza. It's a very friendly place, isn't it?"

"Why did you follow me?" I bristle timorously, clasping both hands on Scruffy's cheek and pressing my body against his soft neck. "I thought I said I needed some time alone."

"And I am sorry," Bryon apologizes with a tip of his head. Undauntedly, he steps beside me. "We simply didn't want to get too far ahead of you and Scruffy, considering his cast." He raps his knuckles on the wolf's bandage as Scruffy bathes the left side of his face in slobber. "At first, he researched more into Gabriel, but then Hugo got tired of waiting, so he sent me after you. We can stay as long as you like, they're not going anywhere."

"Do you have to –" I groan with annoyance, knowing Hugo well enough to be sure that Bryon will stick around. "Oh, alright. Can you at least explain to me why my father is here?" I wonder, jabbing a finger at the painting. "And why he… is painted with those grey things on his back?"

"Wings?" Calmly, Bryon taps his staff on the painting twice, nodding. "I suppose he never would've mentioned that. I got so pissed when he cut them off, even if it was for true love or whatnot. I suppose it was rather sweet, slicing them off for your mother and you, but he was so lucky to get those wings. And he just sawed them off, without a second thought. I was heartbroken."

"That's actually my father, then." Nausea rocks my stomach. "My father with wings. You're saying that my father had wings."

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying." Bryon smiles and nods at me soothingly. "He never did go swimming with the family, did he? Or take off his shirt? You never saw the scars, and he was careful of that. Strange man, your father. He had everything – riches, respect, and wings – but he gave it up for a normal life. To be normal is quite boring, in my opinion, but we never wholly saw eye to eye." He blinks with his toothsome eyelashes, glancing me up and down. "This is quite a day, isn't it? Let me know if you need to vomit."

"Not making any promises that I won't." Clutching my stomach, I hunch slightly, staring at his picture, each passing second bringing the realization that I never did see my father without a shirt, perhaps to hide hideous scars from Paige and I. "Is my dad an angel? One of… _them_? Am I…?"

With a melodious chuckle, Bryon rocks his head from side to side. "You really think your quirky little stick of a father was an angel?"

"Then what is he?" I turn my head to Bryon, the slightest tears blurring my vision. "No – no human has bird wings, living flesh and feathers like those. And… my God. What am I?"

"Mostly human." Gently, Bryon places one hand on either of my shoulders, looking deep into my eyes. His own bronze pupils are fringed by those long, thick eyelashes that seem to wave forlornly at me with each blink of his eye. "Penryn, you are a glorious human monkey, and that will never change."

"Your eyelashes," I whisper distractedly.

Bryon's eyebrows raise, puzzlement dominating his sympathetic expression. "What about them? Did one fall out?"

"Those…" My voice tremors. I step away from him with trembling strides, my legs quivering violently. "Those are Paige's eyelashes. You have my little sister's eyelashes. Why do you have Paige's eyelashes?"

Bryon stills smiles, but there's a heartbroken note to it, as if my frightened retreat from his touch had injured him more deeply than I'm aware of. "It's time you learn the truth, isn't it? Time to know the truth of our family."

"Our?" I choke out on a strangled breath, back arching in shock.

"Yes." Bryon closes his eyes, long and lush lashes against his cheek. "It's time to learn the truth about everything. About angels, about Fallen, about Seraphim, about the humans, but mostly, about" – his eyes open, allowing the metallic bronze to chase the dark brown in his iris – "the Nephilim."

* * *

**First thing's first: Happy Birthday, Anonymous! I plan on releasing this chapter on the 17th – if I miss it, I'm sorry!**

**Next thing: This story's officially hit 100 reviews. Guys, that's amazing. Truly amazing. I'm so happy about that, it made me beam like a little, uh, happy writer. **

**Final thing: Haha no just kidding I'm not going to comment on the chapter I'm just going to sit here and let you debate about it. I will say that you might not get the next chapter for a while, because my sacred Wi-Fi spot has been compromised. **

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**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

We hadn't left the room, still crouching in the center. The golden light from above remains steadfast and sure, casting light upon the floor of which I huddle against. The air is surprisingly warm, perhaps heated by Bryon's presence.

The warmth harbored in Bryon's cloak remedies the shocked shivers racking my body slightly. Each time he glances my direction, I catch the furtive sheen of concern in his bronze eyes. Though he tries to remain intently focused on mixing the powder with his spit to create that weird brown paste, Bryon still seems drawn back to me, as if his concern grows with each glance my way.

"This is a long story," he cautions in advance, bending over his little pile of powder and spit and the beginnings of the nasty paste, "and one that must be told correctly. Be warned, you won't be able to tell Raphael until I give the okay."

I stare at his back as he reaches across the way to rub Scruffy's nose. "Like Ogden wasn't able to say much about my father. He said… something about… wait for family."

"I have no power over Ogden." Bryon meets my gaze, his calm a balm to my fluttering heartbeat. "That old man is a king in his own regard, and I will not be the one to strip him from that."

"You're doing it." I clench my teeth. "Being mysterious. Can't you just start explaining already? What is that brown stuff?"

"This 'brown stuff' is just paint." Bryon smiles, rubbing the last of the powder into paste and scooping it all together. "I'm a very visual storyteller, so I like to jot some things down as I tell, to help people understand my meanings."

"That's the last of it, right there. Can you start now? I'm so sick of being unsure."

"I suppose so." Bryon kneads the paste, not meeting my eyes. "Well. With every story, there is a beginning. I'm going to start out and tell you the nature of things. There is a start and finish to everything, a dawn and a dusk, a birth and a death. Everything, that is, except the world itself. You humans may speak of the universe and its birth and how something started so long ago, but that's nonsense. I've been around long enough to know that, even if an apocalypse wipes out the world as we know it or all the natural resources are tapped or everyone dies of some freak lab accident – anything to finish an era, or the dusk to a bright day – at the dawn of the next day, everything will be back to normal, and the species of the world will start anew. It is upon that knowledge that I know that the Lord in some way exists – for nothing that spectacular can happen on its own. Do you understand?"

Slowly, I nod. Knitting my fingers together, I say, "Sort of like your analogy with days and such. If one day ends, the next is gonna follow. It's not going to just stop. Yeah, I can understand that."

"Clever girl." Bryon smiles approvingly at me, dipping two fingers into his paste. "And, each time the world regenerated, the same species would return." He pauses, fingers hovering over the sable marble. "Of course, there are thousands upon thousands of different breeds and minor creatures that can be treated like livestock, but I will mention only a few special ones: the returning species, or world powers."

I watch as he slowly draws a figure with an arched back and two demonic wings onto the marble, the style simple but skilled in the same respect. "Contrary to the common belief, Lucifer's fall was not the beginning of the evil in men and the invention of darkness. Even the light of glory and goodness casts a shadow, and so does every other light for that matter. Lucifer was the first to fall in this age, however, and, since he has spent the longest time studying the ways of the dark, he is naturally their leader. Nothing supernatural about it. All the other Fallen are not necessarily evil, either – of course, the rejection turns some bitter and some _are_ evil, but not all. You met Baelan, for a short period of time." Bryon sketches a slightly smaller bat-winged man beside Lucifer. "He was thrown into hell because he fell in love. That should not be a sin, and yet, it is, and he is labeled as an enemy."

"He didn't seem particularly threatening," I admit. "Sort of protective of Hugo, and assertive, but not very threatening."

"See?" Bryon smiles at me, his fingers hovering above the floor. "There is good and evil in everything, rarely just one. Except for demons – those are born from darkness, and I hate to have to trust them in any occasion. Most of the time, the Fallen keep them in line. If I was a miserable bat-winged creature, I wouldn't want annoying monsters running around my feet, either."

With his thumb, he paints a bizarre looking creature mulling at the legs of the Fallen angel.

"Then there are the Wolves." With his non-filthy hand and a furrowing brow, Bryon pats Scruffy's flank, reaching quite a ways to stroke the wolf from where he reclines against the mural wall again. "I'm not sure how I should draw these – they're a wild card among the races, each taking a resemblance to a particular species. There are three main categories – Fallen wolves, Monkey wolves, and Angel wolves. The Fallen wolves have a slim, muscular build, usually with darker coats, and always with bat wings. Uncannily like a Fallen angel, right? Monkey wolves – sorry, _I_ didn't come up with the name – resemble Scruffy a bit more, minus the long legs. They're, well, scruffy, skinny, and, between me and you, usually smarter the others. Angel wolves are huge, massive creatures, with plush pelts and burly muscles. You've only seen Jane once, but she's just a female, and she's much bigger than Scruffy. Big things, with huge feathered wingspans. Each wolf has a unique feature; Scruffy has his legs, Jane has her telepathy and intelligence, and Rumbbaa – you haven't met him– has his four ears."

The canine figures are all slightly above Lucifer and such. The bat-winged wolf is slinking, the plain wolf seems to be prancing, and the huge wolf is caught in a majestic pose.

"Now come humans." Bryon's eyes twinkle. "I doubt I'll have to go very much into depth here. You know your little people, and your fascination in your everyday lives. I love humanity much more than any other species, because of your unique diversity. You never, ever will run into the same personality twice, and that's simply magic in a world of cookie-cutters. Back in the old days, before these goddamned angels and their goddamned world domination schemes, humans were respected for their brains and crafting skills. No one else had that much originality. You were just as revered as any other species, though somewhat more amusing than the rest. That was before even my time, so I hear only second-hand accounts."

"Before the angels…?" I cock my head, leaning forward, staring at the painting. "Does that mean that they weren't always top of the food chain?"

Bryon laughs. "Lord, no. Those bastards didn't always rule everything, imagine the chaos! But all in good time; I'll get there eventually. On the subject of angels, we'll go there next.

"You know what many assume of angels. Proud, haughty pigs gifted with wings, brawn, and sentient swords. And most of that is correct – they are not the brightest creatures when it comes to anything aside from the art of war. That is mostly Gabriel's fault; apparently before, they, too, had geniuses, before they were shunned and banned from society. The angels consist of a complicated system, even though, to outsiders, it is only archangels, angels, and the Messenger. They actually consist of many levels and sublevels of authority that are invisible to anyone but angels. Like a wolf pack. Raphael is on the higher end of archangel hierarchy, whereas Josiah – you met him, didn't you? – is dangerously low. They do not reproduce with the she-angels, but they do have a way of adapting to their environments. I'm not sure, I've never asked one about it. Their swords are irreplaceable. Of course, anyone can get their hands on the special metal with enough grunt work – it's difficult but not impossible. It's one thing we steered humankind away from. But the sentient ability? That's lost to us, and of course the angels don't know."

I lean forward to gingerly touch the wings of the largest angel, mind racing. "The Messenger – is he the real deal, or just a phony?"

Bryon settles back on his haunches. "I do not believe that Gabriel has ever felt a touch of holiness. No, with all that I have seen and felt in my many years, I cannot conclude that the Messenger has any connection to God – it is a mere dictatorship, and one of the cleverest kind. What happened with Lucifer is that he started to challenge Gabriel's connection with God. He stood alone, even though he was one of the most popular archangels of the time – the Morning Star, they called him – and his aloofness proved his downfall. Gabriel accused him of challenging God's power, of undermining God's divine highness. And Lucifer fell, forced to become a wretched creature, all alone in the darkness, because he dared to think and to try at being free from Gabriel."

"This Gabriel guy sounds like a real jerk."

"Well, yes and no. He was smart, very smart. You've seen the destruction the angels have wrecked while not beneath his rule. They were even more dangerous before he took power, because there were no laws or codes restricting how they acted. The rules are a way to bind the brutes, to keep them from harming others. I'd like to believe that Gabriel knew that as he made his claims, knew that, without a head on its shoulders, the beast would only strike blindly and clumsily. If Lucifer had challenged that order and dethroned Gabriel, the angelkind would be thrown into a chaos, a chaos that would affect the rest of the world. If it was a choice between dooming one person and yet saving countless other lives, what would you choose?"

I remain quiet, unwilling to answer the question, unwilling to agree with the cruel Messenger.

"Exactly." Bryon smiles in understanding. "You see, like I'd said before, there's good and evil in everything. But we're getting much off topic, aren't we? There are still two races left for us to discuss."

"Really?" I furrow my brow, stroking the clumpy paint on the wolves. "Isn't that it?"

Bryon chuckles, rolling back into a crouch. "Oh, no, there's still two world powers left. First off, let's get the Seraphim, before too many questions arise. The male Seraphim much resemble angels, slender angels with six pairs of wings: two pairs stacked upon each other at the shoulder blades, and a pair emerging from the small of the back. They are beautiful, and have a sort of soft luminance about them emitted from their feathers. Some of the more powerful ones are so light they can float. The females are actually long, slender snakes with six pairs of tiny wings along the spine. They often coil around their mates' necks. I don't know anything about that mating topic, so don't ask. I do know that, unlike angels, they reproduce, which is, quite frankly, bizarre to me. Even with their odd appearances, the Seraphim were once the top of the food chain."

Bryon draws a little sword in the hand of his angel before returning to the Seraphim sketches. "Once upon a time, these were the leading force in the celestial creatures. They're intelligent, smarter than you'd believe, and fast as the light they bathe in. They worshipped God and believed that he wanted good in all places. As healers, they were peaceful beings, wandering and helping those they came across with arrogant distaste. Though they never were satisfied with their duties, they were wise leaders, ones that kept the angels straight until Gabriel rallied them. Gabriel and his archangels hunted down the Seraphim and threw them from heaven – not into Hell, thank god, the angels would've been killed right then and there from the pure radiance of fury coming from the Seraphim. Now they just sort of wander the Earth, killing archangels on sight. I hope you're realizing how dangerous it is to be travelling with that archangel, by the way."

Smirking, I chuckle, "Everyone hates Raffe, don't they?"

"I didn't want to bring it up – and I've tried being very civil around him – but I do." Bryon grins sheepishly. "Two wrongs don't equal a right in my book. It's difficult to get on my bad side – and damn, I try so hard not to have one – but somehow, that snarky archangel did it."

"Raffe doesn't know how to play the 'act friendly to threatening strangers' card," I sigh, shrugging. "It's made things… difficult, in some situations, but he's tolerable. He's handy in a fight."

Bryon tosses up his head with a quick roar of a laugh. "I'd say that Raphael's a bit more than handy in a fight. I've been up against him enough times to know that he's very, very good."

"Acting mysterious," I remind him. "Besides, we still have one category left."

"Ah, yes." Bryon's smile turns sly, a dangerous gleam accompanying the warmth in his eyes. "My favorite. The Nephilim."

I study his face as he refreshes his paint, smearing his fingers into the paste. "You're a Nephilim, aren't you? _Dragon_. Is that what you look like, really? Your demon form?"

"'Demon form' is some rather harsh terminology," sighs Bryon, straightening and meeting my eyes. "But, though I try to evade the truth, I suppose it is true to an extent." He looks to the ground and remains quiet for a tense moment, a moment I don't dare interrupt. "Please, Penryn, allow me to explain what a Nephilim truly is before you make any harsh judgment of me."

"I'll try," I whisper, but already, my hands tremble slightly. I remember what Raffe had said, about the Nephilim devouring people – but abruptly, I pause, remembering what Hugo had said when I'd first met Bryon, about how he'd wean Paige off of human flesh.

"Penryn, might I ask you what the difference between a wolf and a dog is?" Bryon questions, his fingers hovering over the marble.

"Uh." I frown, thinking. "One will bite your hand off, and the other's man's best friend." Scruffy mewls in protest, silenced by Bryon's caressing hand.

"One is domesticated, treated with loving care, with a family and a home and a happy life." Bryon smiles. "The other is alone. It's been treated like a mangy animal for its entire existence, so it knows no other way. It is a monster, one that will quickly harm animals if it believes that they can be prey. However, you and I both know a benign wolf." He strokes Scruffy's mane, his hand roaming up to scratch behind the wolf's ears. "And any unloved dog out on the streets can go feral. This is the same with Nephilim. You have both options, and neither one is adamant on its path.

"What Raphael and the other archangels saw as during the period of the Fall of the Watchers was a period I call the Terrible Twos." He smiles sadly at me, bronze eyes flashing. "My father claims that I never hurt a soul except for occasionally nipping my mother, but I'm not sure how viable he is. During this stage in a Nephilim's life, we're like any other little child – sticking whatever we can in our mouths, throwing temper tantrums, having mood swings. True, a few of our inherited abilities marked our activities as slightly more perilous, but our parents were always there to keep us on the right path, as any parents are. I suppose…" He trails off, meeting my gaze. "After Raphael found out about the Watchers' fraternizing, the first angel he went to was my father. He threatened my dad disparagingly, and, apparently, I did not like that at all. First, I hissed at him, revealing my existence to Wrath of God. Then, he cursed at my father for spawning a little demon and I grew angrier. I tore a chunk out of his arm, if I remember correctly."

I can't help laughing a short, breathy chuckle. The thought of a little tiny Bryon ripping into Raffe's arm is morbidly amusing.

"Raphael flew off, but of course, his interaction with me had scarred his image of us. If I could, I would take back what happened that day. What soon followed was the imprisonment of my father and the other Watchers." Suddenly, he clears his throat. "I suppose I should've lead with this, but I'll make time for it now, before my tale really hits the fan. We, the sons and daughters of the Watchers, were not the first Nephilim to tread the Earth. Nor were some of us the first to evade the angel's talons. No, Ogden had done it, centuries before us."

"Ogden?" I whisper in surprise.

"Oh, yes. You see, he was the offspring of a pretty maiden and a drunken angel. The angel kept it quiet, and so did the mother. He was hidden in a blacksmith's forge until he reached an age he could control himself in. Ogden was alone for the longest time, but, when the Watchers started siring, he hung around and formed bonds with all of us. When our fathers disappeared, he filled their roles as best he could, using his strength to wallop us into line if that course of action was necessary. When our mothers went into hiding – if they were not killed by the hellions – he held us after we had nightmares, and wiped our tears after we fell down. Ogden became the Mama Bear, and earned the title the First Nephilim. Even though I technically have a better seat in politics to other species, he is as respected as I am among the Nephilim."

"You're king, aren't you? Nephilim King as well as Dragon King?"

"They call me their king, yes, but it'll be explained in good time." Bryon winks and smiles, holding a dyed finger to his lips, leaving a smudge on their full shape. "Ogden hid us, lead us to place after place. Raphael tracked down other groups of Nephilim – there were two hundred Watchers; although only twenty of them were considered leaders, all of them had children. It was a slaughterhouse, because Ogden could not protect the ones that fled from their houses after their mothers left, could not hide them from Raphael's blade if they chose to dine on the humans that so easily strutted up to little bawling children in the street. Not one survived, though I searched long and hard for brothers and sisters. When all the easy leads had vanished, all the little children running free on the streets had disappeared, Raphael went after the big catch.

"There were over twenty of us, in all. Twenty six, assuming I'm remember right. In the time Raphael had been hunting down our brethren, many of our number had begun to grow to full size. I didn't – I had the curse of long life, a life that's extended my days until now. So, when Raphael finally tracked us down, I had the appearance of a three year old boy. I was a runt, a skinny thing, clutching to my father's cloak the way another child may grip a teddy bear." He breathes deeply, closing his eyes, to hide pain. "I remember that night so clearly. I remember the flames, Penryn, licking the chapel like hell itself reaching for the sky, and Raphael hovering over the steeple with sweeping flaps of his snowy wings. The ash fell like tears from the bloody red sky. Ogden had gone out to fight him, to try and ward the archangel off. It didn't work. Raphael sliced off his tongue and left him to die in the smoldering remains of a burning hut, the injuries causing Ogden his misshapen build now. After that, he took off, after me."

Bryon chuckles dryly, still not opening his eyes. "I told that bastard to remember me. I thought that I was going to die valiantly, that the fight I would put up would make a mark on Raphael. To him, I was just a boy. I lead the charge. We were headed for a forest that had these lovely blossoms, a forest I grew up near, a forest where my father taught me everything he knows, and I was confident we could make the distance. Once submerged in the shadows of the undergrowth, Raphael could not be able to find us, surely. We did not even make it." His voice grows slightly more labored. "I had a little sister. She was right at my heels, we were going to make it. When Raphael came out of the blue and stabbed her, I turned around and I snarled at him. I would've leapt, ripped out his throat, but, for the first time, I saw the bodies of all my friends and family, lying lifelessly over the mountain."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, something deep within me longing to erase his palpable agony. "It must've been rough."

"I do occasionally have nightmares." Bryon clears his throat and refocuses. "But that's the past, and it was a long time ago. Ogden and I, we stumbled out of that Hell. Raphael, callous son of a bitch, he'd hit me upside the head – I'm not sure why he thought I was dead, but apparently he did. I had a scar for a long time, but it's gone now. Ogden was burned badly, couldn't even walk. I didn't wake up in his arms. The Wives had returned, the surviving fifty. Those that knew the dead or were the mothers of the dead were all crying. According to Daisy, my mother was stumbling around, bugling my name desperately, searching for my body. She wanted to believe that I had lived, but she just couldn't. I had landed in a ditch after Raphael had hit me, and I was hidden, even as she dropped to her knees and pulled the body of my sister onto her lap and sobbed. It wasn't until I started muttering in my sleep that she realized I was living.

"I honestly thought she was going to kill me, she was holding me so tight. She was happy, of course, but she was also injured. Her flee from the hellions had impacted her, less so than the imprisonment of her husband or the death of her daughter, but she was a changed woman. She, much like I, became furious at the world. The Watchers had left their swords with their wives, since every wife can hold their husband's sword. She took up that sword and she slaughtered the angels that remained on Earth, that's what she did. Thea was always a fiery, creative creature, but she soon proved to be even more lethal than a mother wolf with threatened pups. That earned her the famous codename She Wolf."

"Your mother is She Wolf?" I burst. "That means that your father was Sariel!"

Bryon smiles, his bronze eyes opening. "Clever, clever girl. Yes, my father is Sariel, the Lion, former keeper of the cherubs. With all hopes, we should meet him somewhere along the way. He'll be so happy to see you. My father and I – I realize now we're much in common. Protective of those we love, open to those we don't know, and a dangerous enemy. I left my mother not long after she started hunting the angels, simply because, although I looked young, I had a rebellious thirst for freedom – I wanted to see the world myself, and learn all of its secrets. I do believe I broke her heart, but she let me leave, let me go my own way. It only made me harsh.

"A child is not meant to be on its own, to learn how to navigate the world itself. A child should be given familial guidance, should be shown how to be kind and gentle. I never was taught that by my parents – Ogden fell into depression, so I never stayed much around him, either. As I grew and I learned more about how bitter and evil and strange this world is that I lived in, I became angrier and angrier with it. My belligerence was frighteningly blissful, and it grew with each fistfight I won, each tussle I reigned victorious over. I continued in this fashion for many a year, and, with this euphoric rage, I found relief in pummeling Raphael.

"I had all my motives, of course – by this time, there was illegal offspring from drunken angels and such who'd heard the rumors of human women, as there always has been – so, when Raffe descended to hunt, if he spent all his time battling _me_, there was no chance he would kill any of my brethren. If I fought Raphael and killed him, no one would ever be hurt by his wrath again. If I earned expertise in the world of fighting, someday, my own children would be safe from any harm that fell upon them. And so, every time I saw that archangel, I would shift into my other form, and meet him on the battlefield."

"You still haven't explained the other forms thing," I remind him softly.

"Oh." Bryon blinks. "I haven't, that's right. I'm getting caught up storytelling, aren't I?"

"Don't stop, it's interesting. I'm piecing together the world along with your descriptions."

"Alright. I won't. But first, other forms." Bryon smiles and shuts his eyes, cutting off the bronze gleam. "Nephilim have two technical 'forms' – we have the human appearance, the one that our fathers or mothers gave to us, and we have what happens when the blood mixes. We have fangs and tails and – well, everyone is different. We can shift between the two with ease. Me? I am a dragonish creature, a dragon without wings. But, Penryn, this person you see here, this form?" Bryon turns to me, touching one dirty hand to his face. "It isn't just a skin, just a tarp to cover up a beast inside. This is _me_. I am just as much this man as I am that beast. That's something you've got to remember when dealing with any Nephilim – that 'demon form' we have? That's us, too. We're the same, there is no difference. True, usually, when I go 'dragon', it isn't to skip through a field of daisies, but it's the same soul. I am _Bryon_. Bryon Young. If you look into my eyes and see a monster, you are not my friend. I am Bryon, and that will not change, no matter the form."

Then, smiling sadly, he blinks for a long time. When his eyes open once more, the pupils are slits, like he'd said – the bronze gleam there is somehow brighter, and the sadness just as potent. He smiles, the reptilian eyes sending shivers through me again. With another long blink, they vanish, returning to round dots in the center of his eyes.

"That's creepy," I whisper. "That's… seriously creepy. But I think I can live with it."

"Are you certain?" Bryon's gaze is yearning for understanding, watching intently for my approval, but there is so much fear, so much expectation of rejection there that my heart tugs. "If you are not, I'd rather know."

I square my shoulders. "My mother does dealings with demons, my father had wings, my sister… is an angel ragdoll, and my primary companion is an archangel with bat wings. Bring it on."

Very slowly, Bryon starts to smile at me, warmth touching his expression. Clearing his throat, he tries to realign the conversation, to focus himself, to banish his smile. "So, yeah, I'm a dragonlike monster. Every time I would see Raphael, I would engage him as a monster, not allowing him to see this face. Every time, I would limp away seconds before I was overwhelmed, disappearing without a trace. Every time during my convalescence, I would grow bitterer, more hateful.

"Until I met my father again. I looked about sixteen at the time, and it was millennia since I had parted with him. If it hadn't been for my mother's descriptions of him – how I reminded her of him, how we had the same reflective eyes – I would've not had a clue upon his appearance. I had paired multiple personalities to that face she constructed over the years: kind and gentle, harsh and cruel, warm and soft. None had seemed to fit. I remember it so well, the time I first looked at him."

"But wasn't he imprisoned?" I wonder, eyebrows furrowing. "Thrown into hell or whatnot?"

Bryon nods once. "He was. But it was in a time when Gabriel kept stacking up the rules, kept adding more, throwing angels into the Pit for reasons beyond me. And, with each new force that descended, the defenses grew weaker." He lifts his open hand, forming a blade with his fingers, and sending a fragile quiver through it. "This is walls, the walls separating the creatures in the Pit from the outside world. See it?" His hand jerks suddenly, a major change when compared to all the little shivering. "Did you see that?"

"Yes."

"Good. So did the Watchers. They learned that the walls fluctuate, and, occasionally, broke form for _brief_ moments. They, the ones that had been there the longest, learned how to escape one at a time. Of course, they were intelligent enough to return. Uriel still kept a close eye on Hell, and any permanent absence would be noted and their gap would be sealed. But they checked to see if their wives had survived – and many of the fifty had, drinking my blood to extend their lifetimes. Those Watchers which ascended and searched for the love of their lives, wandering to discover the one of which they had prayed for and dreamed of in that dark hole, only to discover a headstone often went mad, committing suicide or becoming bloodthirsty, eventually to be taken out by the angel hunters. Those Watchers which found their wives – would you believe it – sired more Nephilim. _My_ father, seeing this and frowning upon it, searched for me.

"You see, Penryn, he remembered me as the genteel little boy that wouldn't harm a fly, despite what my mother warned him. He thought that I could teach the new Nephilim as soon as they were born, teach them how to live without human flesh. A human diet never had satisfied me, but I never, ever wanted to be the wise teacher I am now. I wanted to be a warrior, expert of melee. My anger led me there. And so I was not prepared for him."

Bryon blinks rapidly a few times, dispelling a watery glint in his eyes. "I remember, it was a hot day, sticky as ever. I remember I was darting through the crowds, shadowed by this cloak, when I heard his voice." He laughs breathily once, and then allows his eyes to well. "Penryn, that was one of the happiest days in my existence. I remember he said, 'You there! Your cloak!' I turned around, and I was looking him in the eye – he was wearing a cloak in the dead of summer like me. I didn't recognize him, so I cocked my head and gave him an angry glare. He stepped closer to me, expression softening into disbelief, and he said – he said, 'That's my cloak. I gave my boy that cloak. Why do you have my boy's cloak?'" Bryon's breaths tremble. "And I said, 'What kind of cruel joke are you playing? My father gave me this cloak.' And… it hit us both, in the same heartbeat, nearly as hard as Raphael hit the roof of a nearby building.

"If I'm correct, he was actually fighting some sort of demon. It flew off and left him to recover. But I didn't waste a chance – Raphael was wounded, and I was fresh as a daisy. With my father watching in horror, I leapt onto the roof Raphael had crashed on. He was barely conscious, utterly at my mercy. Oh, God, I remember the triumph, crushing his throat. I remember his weak gurgle, eyelids sliding open to reveal those dimming blue eyes. His life was mine. I was not going to give that up, and I wouldn't have, if my father hadn't been there."

"What did he do?" I whisper, the picture of Bryon's angry face and his hand around Raffe's throat vivid in my mind.

"He cried, 'You are not my son!' I paused. I was confused. His voice brought so many memories back, memories I had long forgotten. My father teaching me to be kind. Teaching me to forgive people, even if they hit me. Teaching me how to make flowers float. I turned to him, eyes wide, and my grip on Raphael relaxed slightly. I said, 'He's hurt me.' He said, 'I know.' Then, in confusion, I said, 'He's hurt you.' My father smiled and said, 'I know that, too. But my son would have forgiven him. My son would've taken the blows, and not searched for the fight. Where is he? Where is my son?'" Bryon sighs slowly, looking deep into the past. "I dropped Raphael, leaving him gasping for breath, and took a few steps towards my father – there was now no doubt on my behalf. I was bewildered, confused by his rejection – I was still a child inside, a child yearning for his daddy. I hadn't taken to many steps before I crashed to my knees and started crying, just like I had when I was a boy. My father wrapped his arms around me then, and carried me away. Oh, Lord, I was a mess."

"It sounds sweet." I glow with envy, wishing my father had done something so beautiful for me. "Did he forgive you?"

"Of course he did." Bryon turns his face to me, wisdom playing at his lips. "That's what family does. He took me under his wing, and taught me to live again – he taught me that surviving isn't living. He taught me how to fight without mortally injuring someone, how to lead, how to be a _man_, not a monster. Between you and I, I think my mother taught him how to be a man, and he preferred it to being an angel. But I owe my father everything. He is the reason I turned my nose up to killing Raphael thousands of times – he'd attacked me upon realizing that I was Nephilim and I'd knock him out. My father is the reason I became respectable King of all the Nephilim in the world today, the reason that I began to live again, the reason I had your father to teach everything I knew about the world."

"My father." The word is a whisper.

"Yes." Bryon smiles. "I have no idea how many times I will say this, but wait, and I'll tell. Around when I was twenty, gauging by appearance, the angels returned. The humans were in the midst of a big boom of wealth and engineering – much like the nineteen-twenties here in America, might I add, but all over the world. They cut that off, cut all those lives short. My Nephilim were also flourishing, learning how to hide and how to love. There were Nephilim falling in love with Nephilim and starting Nephilim families. There were Nephilim falling in love with humans and creating spliced families. And, soon, Nephilim and angels as well. I was respected as a leader among them, a wise man despite my young appearance – I'd graduated from my father's teachings, looking beyond his embrace to find a peaceful path of my own. The angels interrupted that.

"I instantly began a sort of hidden warfare against them – you know what. Angels don't remember humans, and, to an angel's eyes, I look human. It would've gone rather smoothly, dismissing them, if it hadn't been for two she-angels and their quest for suffrage. Ariel, the Lioness, and Audiat, the Wish." He glances up at the wall, looking at the angel hovering beside him in the painting with a grin. "Audiat got stuck in one of the human traps. I, being the gentleman I am, rescued her from the gunshots and marched her home in my arms over a course of three days. Once I was at the aerie, we waved goodbye for a time. But her dreams of suffrage stuck with me, and soon, the Nephilim were allied to the she-angels."

"Wait," I interrupt. "So the she-angels are different from just plain angels? I saw plenty of them at the aeries I've been to."

Bryon rolls his eyes. "Spies, Penryn. And females want to be considered an entirely different species, considering they can't reproduce at all, not even with male angels. Anyway, during the first few stages of their domination, Hugo had joined me, and we wandered the world together. Ogden, too, became attached to the boy's funky attitude. We eventually sent the angels back to their place up in the sky – before you ask, even I don't know about it – and life returned to what it is now. At the end of that period, Hugo – who was twelve at the time – drank my blood, and he, too, became nearly immortal. It blended well with him, leading to an even slower aging than mine.

"But then, I was alone again. I did what I always did – I wandered, I mourned those I had lost, and I helped the Nephilim children learn right from wrong. With each new experience and each new life I rescued and guarded, my legend grew stronger, until I was practically living, breathing folklore. People would whisper my name as I would pass through a supermarket, elders would fantasize of my swollen heart and warm benevolence around the fireside, children would offer me flower necklaces. The Nephilim officially formed an organized government, with me at the head as King. They could've chosen democracy if they'd liked, and yet, they chose the Dragon with the past of blood to lead them through times of crisis and woe. Of course, if they wanted me to leave, I would've, but all the same, I grew attached to the role. That life was lonely in the same way it was beautiful – I hopped from friendly center to friendly center all by myself, never staying long enough to grow attached. I danced, I laughed, I sang, and I left. It was fun, to find the hidden beautiful places of the world and to coax humanity back to its former glory. But I suppose that none of that really matters enough to elaborate upon, not when compared to your father."

I look him up and down, probing for a flaw in his composure. "You said that you're my family. You said that your father gave you my dad. Are you…?"

"If you're going to say grandpap, no. If you're going to say cousin, no. If you're going to say uncle, I'm going to say _ding-ding-ding_."

My throat chokes up. I study his face, trying to memorize every nook and cranny of it. The harder I look at that skin of his, bathed in golden light, the more I see similarity. The line of his jaw is nearly identical to my father's, and his lips closely resemble mine. _Nephilim_. The word is a blade, slicing apart all my other thoughts.

"He never mentioned you," I whisper.

"He never mentioned me. Never let you know that you had an uncle." Bryon breathes in painfully, looking off into the distance. "Bet he probably said your grandparents died, too. It broke their hearts, knowing that they'd never meet their grandkids. I made a promise to my brother that I'd never reveal your location to them, but it became harder and harder to keep it. I loved that silly, quirky, little idiot, but he had a falling out with our father. He thought that I was the favored son, thought that he was always second best. Which he wasn't, not in a million years. But we'll tell ourselves funny lies, don't we? He lived the life of a mechanic with the mindset of an angel – common humans are dumb, and not to be meddled with. As he grew older, it only seemed to prove truer. For a time, I think he added 'Older brothers are dumb' to the list, but he never said.

"How he first met your mother always has interested me, surprised me. She was a government agent – I always forget which branch – and she was investigating a few weird deaths in the area. He was hunting down the demon that killed them. It was an entire pack of hellhounds, and one of them had strayed from the group. In its confusion, it had started to kill people. They crashed into each other quite literally, and fought the demon together in some cacophonous union. She wanted to know more, he didn't want to tell her, and she made him show her his world. The first time I met her, I was training with some tempered swords, shirtless. I'd never seen my brother so jealous. It was amusing at the time. I thought he just wanted to be ripped, thought nothing of the human woman. He hated humans, it didn't even seem like an option for him."

"He always did seem a bit intolerant of clerks and telephone operators," I acknowledge with a nod.

Sidetracked, Bryon snorts with laughter. "You're telling me. That guy could argue with a human for hours without pause. But he didn't with your mother. It at first amused, then puzzled me. Over a series of weeks, they tracked down the entire hellhound pack side by side, falling more and more in love with each demon they slaughtered, until there was only one left. It was the omega, the little guy, they didn't even realize it existed. They were in a cave when it sought revenge. You know, thinking back, they never did say what they were doing all alone in a – I'm going stop that thought right there. Anyway, they were in the cave, all alone. The hellhound creeped out and took a chunk out of your father. He apparently died in her arms, and the hellhound escaped into the night.

"You know as much as I do about what happened with Lucius. I really have no clue about your mother. I just know that she was dealing with demons, which is never to be done.

"Your father returned to us. He decided that, instead of being irritated with the human world, he would be irritated with the world he'd known all his life. As they fell more and more in love, he strayed further and further. It wasn't until he cut off those glorious grey wings of his that I realized he was truly drifting from me. It made me sad, to see him go, but I was happy he'd found a place by that madwoman's side. When he completely gave up our way of life –" Bryon's breath catches. "He did it _completely_. He allowed people like us to come to the wedding, acting normal and dressed like humans, but he didn't let anyone get close to him afterwards. He gave me up for your mother and the little baby you. I'm not going to lie, it broke my heart as much as it did my parents' when he left us. I had no way to look for him, no way to find him. I didn't want to, really, but it was difficult for me."

"Wait." I furrow my brow. "If my father did all of this for my mother and I, why did he leave us? He's obviously hiding most of the truth from you."

"Well, eventually, he sought me out again." Bryon's smile is wry. "Paige had a bit of Nephilim spirit in her as a baby. Nipping, occasional hissing. He wanted to keep her oddities from your mother and you, so he turned to me. I saw you, once, from a distance. After I gave the little girl a bit of therapy, your father made me promise not to tell a soul I'd helped, or that I knew where he was. We shook on it, and… I didn't really leave, I'll admit. I would go on long wanders or take strolls around the planet, but I'd always come back to your city. Your mother's 'demons' frightened me, and I didn't want anything actually coming after his perfect little family, which, in reality, wasn't so perfect. But of course, something did happen."

"What?" I whisper hoarsely, dread slowly speeding my pulse.

Bryon breathes in and then exhales, letting the air out slowly. "Do you remember the day when your dad called you from Wyoming and broke it off with your mother?"

How could I forget? "Yeah."

"He was breaking it off because he was dying. He didn't want you to follow him, to try to find him, to learn the truth about the world around you. So he broke all of your hearts, including his own, and told me to fabricate the evidence. It –" Bryon breaks off, looking at his palms. "It was hard. Harder than I thought."

"Why was he dying?" I demand. "What – why did he leave if he was happy as he was?"

"I don't know," confesses Bryon. "It's not like he told me everything. We weren't pen pals. I do know that this was after he evacuated this very Chaza, and that there were some reported hellhound sightings. For some reason, that idiot was hunting hellhounds again. They're dangerous creatures. He could've probably taken one or two. I have no clue why he approached a pack of fifteen. That secret died with him. I just remember, after having tracked him to those green forests, watching as he fled from a pack nipping at his heels."

"What?" I whisper.

"Don't look at me. Wasn't my idea. Now, your father usually would take flight in such situations, but, as it happened, he couldn't. No wings. So, being the idiot I was, I slid down the ridge and distracted the pack. They focused on me, those red eyes fixing on the Nephilim King. I ran like hell from those things. Your father gave me a glance as I passed over a hill, a glance that almost made my suicidal rescue worth it. Gratitude, and warm, warm, apology. Oh, man, it felt good to see that he didn't hate me like I thought he did.

"I, uh, dispatched of the hellhounds in unpleasant ways. I, unlike your father, spent half of my life training to be a ruthless killer. Of course I could finish off some hellhounds. I don't know what happened while I was gone, really – but I remember limping over the hill, and seeing my brother turn to me. He beamed at me, and lifted his hand to wave hello, blue eyes sparkling the way they used to when he was a boy. Then the most awful eyes in all of hell burned to life behind him, and the omega of the pack pounced before I could do anything. It mauled my little brother and escaped into the night."

I quiver as tension builds in Bryon's voice.

"I held him in my arms, just the way I did when he was a baby squalling for his mother. He gripped my cloak, and his blood – I shouldn't give you the details. He clawed for his phone, made the call with a steady voice, not saying a word to me. When he hung up, he looked me in the eye, and said, 'Make it right.' And then… he died." Bryon swallows. "For the second time in my life, I'd lost my little sibling. For the second time in my life, I buried my little sibling beneath a full moon."

I fall quiet. "He's _dead_. Truly, properly _dead_. Do you think it was the same hellhound?"

"Maybe." Bryon takes a fascination in the palms of his hands again. "A demon out to get him. Maybe."

"My God," I choke out. "He's… he's… _dead_."

"Your mother wanted to revive him." Bryon's voice is soft, guilty, as he stares at his hands. "She pinned me one day outside of your apartment, ordering me to call the demons. But I wouldn't let her gather them. She'd already sacrificed her sanity to Lucius. I was afraid her children were next. I couldn't bear to be around that flat, though, didn't guard you as I should've, and, soon, this whole angel matter erupted – humans were unaware, but signs were brewing for those with clever eyes, and the Nephilim were looking for answers. I've had no real time to grieve."

"I didn't know I was supposed to be grieving," I breathe. I suppose that, all things considered, he'd been an okay dad. If I take out his betrayal, he'd been pretty great. The fact that he'd died, killed by one of the monsters he'd tried to keep away from Mom and I – it hurts, like a gunshot to the chest. "I've always sort of blamed him for everything with Mom and all, blamed him for not being there, but –" A single tear dribbles over.

"It's alright." Bryon surprises me, wrapping his arms around me. Burying my head into his shoulder, I allow myself to be cradled by my _uncle_. I'm clutched to his chest, held so tightly that his heartbeat resounds through me like a drumbeat. "Somehow, someway, it's alright, Penryn."

* * *

**This is a long, long chapter. But it's time you got some answers, don't you think? **

**POLL: What are you surprised by in this chapter, hmm?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

Bryon takes my hand, swinging me down from the ledge and catching me easily in his muscled arms. He laughs heartily at my frightened grip on him. "Honestly," Bryon chuckles, "do you think I'd let anything happen to little Miss Young?"

"Wait, does the whole 'Young' thing mean that Sariel has a last name?" Slowly unfurling my arms from their strangling grip around his torso, I look into my uncle's eyes with a question. "I didn't think angels would be much into that sort of thing."

"He isn't. Actually, that's a funny story." Bryon marches across the stairs we'd slid down to, testing the next slope. He's been leading me down to the main street again through a rough and rickety path crisscrossing the grooves on the sides of the cavern, sliding from stairwell to stairwell, vaulting off the roofs of buildings to the levels below. Scruffy follows a pace behind us somewhat less nimbly than Bryon's sinuous grace. Without his expertise, I would've tumbled down the steep cavern's walls long ago.

"Careful," Bryon adds over his shoulder as I tail him down the slope, in a surfer position like him as I glide down the steep hill. Bryon catches me again – this time, however, the momentum I'd gained sliding down the slick rock had slammed my body into his, sending him stumbling backwards and nearly sending the two of us off the cliff. "That wasn't very careful," he scolds.

"Yeah, well, there's not exactly safety precautions for me to follow." Shoving hair from my face, I look up into his expressive gaze. "Why is the name 'Young' a funny story?"

"Because it started out as a nickname." Instead of sliding down the next drop, which is practically vertical, Bryon trots down the stairs, his cloak fluttering behind him. He twirls his staff in one hand expertly, spinning it around his fingers. "As soon as my father escaped from the Pit to find my mom, he started calling her Little Mrs. Young, because she was still… _young_. Because of my blood, you know? It stuck, and, when last names became the thing, she kept it."

"You picked it up?" I laugh, just a hair behind him, feet smacking the stone steps in rapid succession.

"Well, sort of. I mean, I use it on passports and such, but just call me Bryon."

"I thought I was supposed to call you Uncle," I remind him, smirking at the back of his head, triumphant at the shivers shaking his shoulders.

"That'd be a novel thought, wouldn't it?" he sighs, a wistful tone shaping the cadency. "_Uncle_. No, unfortunately not – the connection between you and I, the human's hero and the Dragon King? That wouldn't be wise to make, especially with Raphael about."

My skin crawls abruptly as I duck beneath a low door, entering the long waterfall room a breath behind Bryon. Anxiety gnaws at my heart, and a cold stone settles deep in my stomach. "Do you think he'll… abandon us if he finds out?"

"Raphael is sensible." Bryon's warm shoulder brushes mine, the tingling heat lifting my spirits. "He may try to brutally murder me once he realizes that I'm the Nephilim that's escaped him every time, but I have a hard time believing he'd just abandon _you_. He may feel betrayed, confused, maybe even disgusted, but something tells me he won't leave. You are, after all, a Daughter of the Angels instead of a Daughter of Man."

"I want to be a Daughter of Man." My voice is quiet. "I want to be just an average human."

"I'm going to be frank with you." Like two coins in the darkness, Bryon's conciliatory bronze eyes fix on me. "You are practically the average human. Your father never had many angelic traits to pass on – him having six limbs practically consumed my father's end of the bargain – and it seems you didn't inherit a one from him. Well, I take that back. You can pick up angel swords." He gestures towards Pooky Bear generously.

"Raffe said –"

"He was wrong," Bryon dismisses. "If his theory made any sense, she would've rejected you to return to him. I made up some excuse as to why I was able to hold his sword, and, for some miraculous reason, he believed me. Actually, it's quite extraordinary that he hasn't connected the dots already and figured out I'm Nephilim."

"It's probably because you're so docile," I estimate, trailing two fingers through the cold cave water gushing from the falls. "I mean, from what he's described Nephilim himself, he seemed pretty sure you were monsters. As awful as demons."

Bryon exits the waterfall chamber, tapping the end of his staff on one of the lily pads as he departs, sending it caterwauling over the water. Once he's clopped down a few steps, he pauses, eyes searching for another place to drop a level. "Well, in his eyes, we probably are," Bryon mutters, resting a hand on my shoulder to steady me.

Glancing furtively at his handsome face, I question, "Why would he do that?"

Bryon laughs. One of his feet coast down the steep drop, pausing in a nook in the wall. He sets his staff on the ground. "It's not like we had the best relations. He hated me, the dragon Nephilim. I was a creature that he couldn't kill, one that seemed to get away every time. On top of that, in his eyes, I stole his Watchers from him. He simply did not understand love, and I do not believe he does now, either. I suppose, under certain circumstances, the Nephilim are monstrous." Rocks tumble down the cliff from his next step, glancing off the wall. "This area looks risky. I can carry you down."

I glare at him with a judgment balancing inside. Frantically, I try to gauge whether I should trust my uncle, or whether I should do the logical thing and attempt to descend at a better point. Bryon's eyes swim with amorous certainty, his outstretched hand held with a gentle offering. His face is so immaculately trustworthy and his smile is so benevolently soft it seems a sin to refuse him.

"Alright." Blushing furiously, I slip my hand into his. His other arm twists around my waist, lean muscles lifting me without effort. He grips me tightly and holds me against him with one arm, and, to assist his hold, I wrap my arms around his neck and link my ankles around his back.

Bryon's head swivels down, his eyes meeting mine. "Hold on tight, here we go…"

Releasing my hand, Bryon drags his fingers on the hill as he slides down on an invisible skateboard. The next flight of stairs approaches much too rapidly for my liking as we slide vertically, the sharp edges of each ledge like daggers from the earth sent to impale us. With my ever tightening grip, I pin his cloak to his back, but it flutters and snaps around his legs and mine like a dancing butterfly.

At the very last moment before we slam into the stairs, Bryon's free hand catches on a rock, and he holds it tight – we dangle for a few seconds. His grip on me loosens. Receiving the hidden message there, I unravel my legs from his torso, feet hitting the ground uneasily. With slightly rocking steps, I back away from where Bryon will have to fall to the ground, retreated several paces. He falls without trouble, sending a few more stones rolling into the depths of the cavern.

Bronze eyes graze my figure, the sweet concern there melting my heart. "Anything bruised, anything broken? I wouldn't think so, but just in case…"

"I'm fine," I assure, smiling back at him. "Your fingers are probably all bloody."

Bryon chuckles, his jovial amusement released in a roll of the eyes. "I've got callused hands, Penryn. It's not like I pick daisies for a living."

"True." Craning my head back, I squint at the tip of the staff peeking over the ledge. "How are you going to get that back?"

In response, Bryon whistles – the high two-note song quickly draws the attention of our little follower. Scruffy's head appears in the window of the waterfall room, his tongue lolling from his mouth like a fish hanging from a grizzly's maw. With quick, excited strides invigorated by my laughter of recognition, he pads over, tail thrashing violently from side to side. Pacing back and forth above us, he anxiously yips for our attention. On one of his go-rounds, his paw clips the staff, sending it tumbling down the hill.

Bryon scoops it from the hill without a thought wasted, twisting it in one hand to lose the momentum. Leaning on it once more, he whistles to Scruffy again.

The wolf makes a sound halfway between a growl and a mewl, taking one hesitant step over the cliff and slipping. He retreats and whines pathetically, tail tucked.

With a sigh prompted by amusement rather than irritation, Bryon waves an indifferent hand. "Meet us at the bottom, alright? We'll be fine."

As if he understands Bryon's words, Scruffy smiles beatifically and continues plodding along some twenty feet above us, disappearing into another building. Bryon chuckles, swinging his staff about and continuing down our walkway.

"Funny little wolf, isn't he?" Bryon shakes his head. "Good thing he's healing up okay. Hugo would be shattered without Scruffy."

"He said something along the lines of… 'The day he dies is the day I die' one night," I recall with a nod. "I suppose that, through thick and thin, the wolf's always been there with him."

"That's certainly true." Bryon's smile widens. "They're associated with each other. If you see the wolf, the merchant's nearby. If you see the merchant, the wolf's nearby. The Nephilim love him and his snarky sense of humor, love him so much that he's got fanart galore."

"The Nephilim…" Curiosity mounts within me. "You said there were entire cities, towns, of Nephilim. They obviously don't live here anymore, but where did they all go?"

Bryon chuckles, the melodious chords like silk and velvet against one another. "Out and about. Saving people, hunting things, the family business. There's actually a large group aggregating not far from the female aerie, which is where we'll be headed, eventually. There's another smaller group located not far from here at all – by the time we reach its borders, I want Raphael to be fully educated on true Nephilim."

Staring at him sideways, I question, "Is it really a good idea to take Raffe near his hated enemies, even if your peace-making plan works?"

Bryon waves his staff in a dismissive gesture. "You've got ahold of Pooky Bear, and I'm just as good a fighter as him _with_ weapons. I'd have a town on my side as well, not to mention the oldest Nephilim and the wolf and merchant. I'll make Raphael listen to reason, you watch. Oh, he'll try to kill me, but I'll talk him out of it."

"You'll _talk_ him out of it?" I snort, smothering all out laughter. "What are you planning to do, sit him down and have a long discussion about life decisions?"

"Actually, I believe that my usual strategy will serve me well. Ducking, dodging, and battering him with cold hard logic." Bryon winks, long lashes waving with sweet salutations. "If you're on my side, I doubt that he'll last very long, anyhow."

My stomach bucks at that, my cheeks warming like little infernos. Hurriedly, I question, "So… uh… how are you going to dodge Raffe? I mean, he's a pretty fierce fighter."

"I know." Bryon chuckles darkly, a livid gleam dancing in his eyes for less than a second. "But I've found a way to counter his fighting efficiently. Swing at me with Pooky Bear."

It takes me a moment to fully process what he'd said, and another to clasp my hand around the hilt of Raffe's vicious sword. I've been avoiding her touch recently – if I so much as glance at Bryon, passionate hate colors our bond. Now, she revels at our connection, hissing at me to slice him up. If I swing at Bryon, I have no doubt she'll drive my strike into his heart somehow.

"You sure?" I ask hesitantly, waiting to draw Pooky Bear until the last second. I peek over the edge to where the next flight of stairs looms, jagged edges grinning broadly at me. "This isn't exactly a prime place."

"Don't worry." Bryon's smile is so much more inviting than the malicious smirk of the steps. "I won't let you fall."

"That wasn't what I was worried about," I mutter, but I draw Pooky Bear. With a hiss of leather and metal, she kisses the air, her silver tooth shining in the darkness of the cavern like a beacon of heaven in the pits of hell. Bryon grins at her, but he doesn't settle into a ready stance like I do, even cast his cloak aside to spare it from her merciless blade. His grip on his staff, however, does tighten, and his muscles do flex.

Hesitantly, not putting full strength into the blow, I strike. Pooky Bear's eagerness sends it lashing forward like a snake's bite.

Bryon moves in sync with me, and Pooky Bear clashes against stone with a bitter snarl of hatred. He now stands half a step from the place he'd been, simply sidestepping the cut.

Putting more energy into Pooky Bear, I swing again, a wide sweep meant to slice him in half.

Bryon pulls a Matrix-like move, bending back and dropping beneath the blade, letting it sweep harmlessly above him. Without ever touching the ground with his hands, Bryon pulls back, grinning devilishly.

Ignoring my sword's pleas to stab Bryon through the heart, I attempt a beheading maneuver, and Pooky Bear sings.

Bryon's staff pauses her blow. It slams against the wood with a screeching halt, not even denting the mottled surface. With a cocky smile as Pooky and I both sit dumbfounded, Bryon flicks his staff and rips her handle from my grasp, sending Pooky Bear clattering to the ground.

"Of course, you are an amateur," Bryon admits, leaning down to pick Pooky Bear up for me, "and Raphael is one of the elite, but the game will be somewhat the same. If Raphael is considered a god among warriors, I am a god among those that needn't fight at all."

"Don't get too big a head," I scold, but I'm too impressed to give him the beat down he deserves. "I take it I'm not a slightest threat to you?"

"Few things are," Bryon apologizes civilly, approaching half a step. "Are you injured in any way?"

I laugh in amusement. "You didn't hurt me. Why do you keep asking that?"

"Because I've hurt people before," Bryon responds ominously, gaze slipping from mine and resting on the floor. "In the most unlikely of places. If I had harmed you in any way, it would've been best had I known immediately."

"Oh." Awkwardness wrenches my gut, pulling it into a taut knot. As I gaze into those gleaming eyes, those discs of regal bronze, I find myself recounting his words. Of a beast. Of a monster. Residing inside of him. Breathing with every inhale and exhale of his lungs. At that plunges us both into a silence that seems to stretch onwards forever, draping story after story of descent in thick awkwardness.

As silence overwhelms the sensation of company, I find myself pondering simple matters and complex alike. Bryon is the center of my deep thoughts, and Raffe the king of the petty. Raffe had seemingly taken an attachment to Penryn, Daughter of Man – could he do the same to… what was it he'd said? Daughter of the Angels? What does that mean? The blood of the filthy birdbrains that'd shattered my world runs through my veins, circulating with each heartbeat? Or, instead of the world of the humans, do I belong to this fantasy palace built around me, carved from stone and sculpted by the hands of a man who believed himself a beast?

And Bryon. What kind of a man is the one that claims he is no better than the common demon, but all his actions point to him being a saint? What kind of a man claims that he has hurt people in the most simple of situations, but bows before the little child crisscrossed with stitches and blue with bruises as if she is his queen? What kind of a man admits to hating an angel that's destroyed his entire world with sadness in his tongue, as if his inability to forgive is a sin of the most grievous fault?

What kind of man is my uncle?

Surely there is no monster residing in this peaceful giant, though his bronze eyes gleam like a demon's. Surely this is Bryon, not some bizarre creature. As we slink down from level to level, I spy on his polite gestures and the modest love filling his eyes – not just for me, but as if the entire world around him is his friend. It's unsettling, to see the candid trust clear across his face as he relies on me to help him down as we reach the bottom stories.

The last level to from the end is finally where Bryon strikes up the conversation. "I do hope I haven't driven you off. Scared you or anything. I wouldn't do a thing to harm you or your sister, and it has been a very many years since I've harmed anyone at all. I fear hurting those who mean much to me, and that makes me overprotective. Don't be afraid of me, I beg."

"I'm not afraid," I claim, unsure how much of what I say is truth. "I'm just trying to figure out what world I'm entering. I mean, I'm technically a Nephilim, right? Angel and human blood?"

"True." Bryon's gaze is molten bronze. "If you're worried about Raphael turning on you, he'd never do that."

"That wasn't what I was worried about," I sigh, "and I don't think you can be so sure. Raffe's tough as steel. He'll do what he thinks is right and not bat an eye about it."

Bryon chuckles, trotting down the last staircase. "You may know a side of Raphael that I do not believe I will ever become acquainted with, but do not think that I do not know him at all. The first rule of war is to know your enemy. No one is invincible, no one can harden themselves completely to the world. I've known Raphael for enough years to know that it's true for angels as well as the rest of us."

I glance at him sideways, brow folded. "Why do you try to find good in everybody?"

Bryon is silent for a long time, eyes skyward. "Because if someone had given Janiel a hand in her madness, there is a chance that she would've been able to fend of madness's barbed offers. Because if maybe a random stranger would've tipped their hats to deformed Ogden as he passed in the streets with regards to his injuries, maybe he wouldn't be so shy, so self-conscious. Because perhaps if someone had given Ariel the respect she deserves, she wouldn't have sought out monsters to mar her skin and scar her flesh to show that she is indeed equal to what is in fact a lesser sex. If you see that even the most damaged of people is still – well – _human_, then you will find the world do be a much more wretched place. It is all I can to do help those that need me."

I whistle in awe. "You're like a new version of Jesus."

"Not quite." Bryon's smile is grim. His feet hit the ground level at last, and he continues with broad strides over the main street. "Jesus was very different than me. Would you believe it, we did not get along."

"Of course." Sighing through my nose, I roll my eyes. "My uncle knew Jesus. That's perfectly normal."

"Hush," Bryon shushes, extending a splayed palm behind him to silence me. "They're only in the other room, and I wish to sneak up on Hugo."

The memories of how Hugo had distracted the shirtless Bryon to allow Ogden to slink up behind him by the creekbed flows back vividly. I smile with all my teeth, the soft brush of my feet against the stone growing even softer.

"Where are they?" I murmur, eyes probing the shadows for a sign of brazen flickering fire peeking through one of the windows, or the silhouette of a man against the gentle illumination of the glowing flowers.

"The next room over, against the wall. Keep quiet. They'll be listening. And, at a certain point, I'll signal you. Stop there."

With a nod and an exchange of gazes, we plunge into the darkness with a fervor not found before. The fall of Bryon's feet seemingly does not happen at all, his staff hitting the ground with each stride but not a sound emerging from the contact which had before created the _clack-clack-clack_. His cloak sways, fabric my only incentive upon where my elusive uncle may be. I follow the swish of brown silently as I can, awaiting eagerly Bryon's attempt to spook Hugo.

It isn't long before the arch leading to the next cavern looms overhead, the thousands of jewels and precious metals studding its surface catching the slightest light and sending it gleaming back at us, like little eyes in the darkness. Bryon strides proudly through without faltering, gesturing for me to do the same. Settling into a stealthier walk, I slink behind him.

The orange flame tints the floor around it. Against the fire, Hugo's figure is coiled and graceful, like a lynx flexing its claws over the neck of his little guitar. Ogden is barely visible, the only thing I truly catch wind of the front rag of his oily apron and his muscled arms fiddling with metal scraps before the embers. Paige's pale form is against his side, hugging one arm with wide eyes. Upon first glance, there is no Raffe – unless you look beyond the glare of the flame to see him pacing back and forth restlessly, casting a fearsome shadow against the walls.

They seem to be in deep conversation, but I'm too far from them to catch what they may be saying. I wonder how Bryon's going to pull this gig – his vigorous pacing drones out any of the noises he may make, but Raffe's sight can penetrate the darkness Bryon uses as a shield. Maybe unintentionally, Raffe will give my uncle away. But, as I study his position more, the more I am convinced it can be done. In his agitated pacing, Raffe is not surveying the shadows very well. His own bloated shape dancing over the wall is enough distraction. A fire also separates Bryon and Raffe – it's difficult to see beyond a light into darkness, especially if the things lurking there don't want to be seen.

Bryon's hand twitches. I pause, feeling vulnerable in the middle of the open floor. There isn't a stone for me to crouch beside or a wall to lean against. But I freeze, letting stillness perform its duty.

From here, I can catch the conversation, echoing off the stone.

"– just saying," Raffe's voice comes, irritated quality thick in each syllable, "it would be an easier task to listen out for them if you weren't killing cats over there."

"Killing cats?" Hugo barks indignantly, his head swiveling from side to side with each of Raffe's turns. "I am making music. Your pacing was driving me mad! Why are you listening out for them, anyway?"

Raffe freezes for a second, turning to Hugo. In the same heartbeat, Bryon pauses in his crouch, completely invisible to all except me. For a moment, his extended silence makes me believe that Raffe has spotted Bryon creeping up on the group, but he continues same as ever.

"I don't know. There's something about this place that's not right. Like it was never inhabited by anything other than ghosts. I don't like them out there."

"Oh?" Hugo's form straightens, as if the bantering had taken an interesting turn. "I can't imagine why you'd be uncomfortable about them alone in the darkness. Alone in the darkness, surrounded by hundreds of houses and comfy little rooms. Concealed from prying eyes, hidden from the Wrath of Wraths. Bryon comforting her, being her shoulder to cry on, helping her limp home with a smile at his lips. Maybe a smile isn't the only thing at his lips. No, I can't possibly comprehend it, Pigeon-Bat. Why are you so uncomfortable with Penryn and Bryon, all alone in the darkness of this beautiful tourist attraction?"

Disgust muddles the pit of my stomach. Perhaps it is only to toy with Raffe in a catty superiority, but the idea that Hugo knows he's my uncle and still dangles me before Raffe sends queer shudders of repulsion through me. I search for Bryon, to see his reaction to Hugo's licentious ploys, only to find that he has been lost in the sea of shadows, shrouded from my eyes.

Raffe's reaction, though quickly claims my attention.

He snarls like an animal, black wings quivering threateningly on his back. But instead of pouncing, he continues pacing, slightly more vigorously than before. If he hadn't that adamant will, he might've leapt on Hugo right then and there, scythes unsheathed and fists hungry. I don't have a doubt that Hugo's been at this for ages, irritating Raffe in each chance he receives.

"Look," Hugo offers, "if you're getting so uptight about this, I can just use my foolhardy Bryon-calling tactic. It always works?"

"Oh?" Raffe sighs. "What is that?"

"The Spirit soundtrack." Hugo steadies the guitar in his lap, plucking at some strings intuitively. "'Homeland', 'Reunion', and 'Here I Am' usually work for that little fucker."

Raffe sighs wearily. "If it makes you happy."

And, at those words, Hugo's hands glide up and down the guitar in a softly romantic melody, one that carries both beauty and weight. Carried by the drifting tune, I blink, relaxing in the darkness. Though it's not obvious, I see Raffe's shoulders release their tautness as well throughout the length of the beautiful song.

Upon the last note, Raffe questions, "So… where is the giant?"

"That usually does draw him out," Hugo murmurs thoughtfully, brow furrowing. "I wonder if…"

"He's right behind you?" Bryon seems to rise from the shadows, liquid form solidifying into ice. Hugo scrambles backwards, lashing out with his guitar. It would've hit Bryon in the jaw if he hadn't ducked quite so quickly. Disdainfully, Bryon watches as it swings through the air. "That could've hit me, you know."

"Jesus Christ!" Hugo yelps. "You almost gave me a fucking heart attack!"

"I hope your heart attack doesn't engage in intercourse." Bryon reclines beside Hugo, humming with smug content.

"Oh, you think you're hilarious, don't you, smartass?" Hugo snarls, waving his hands in the air. "You're not! You're really fucking not!" Hugo holds a hand up to Bryon's face. "Don't you dare."

Raffe, who hadn't truly reacted to Bryon's appearance, seems to scan the shadows. He steps closer to the flames in attempt to draw nearer towards my general direction, allowing me a scintillating view of his anxiety as he searches. My heart splutters briefly as his gaze claps against mine and his expression momentarily softens before it hardens into Adonis-like marble beauty once more.

I rise and stride towards the flame, refusing to break the tentative eye contact until the fire's wrath becomes too great. With each stride in his direction, I'd like to believe that Raffe gets a little less tense. Ignoring Bryon's and Hugo's playful bickering, I walk until find myself next to Raffe. The heat of the fire kisses my skin, and light dances across my face. Leaning against the hard stone wall, I relish the cool stone versus the fire's warmth with absurd pleasure. Heaving a guttural sigh, Raffe eases against the side of the cavern beside me. Not once glancing my direction, he does gently brush my shoulder with his elbow.

"Where have you been?" he mutters, voice not carrying above the spirited conversation. Glancing once in my direction with glittering eyes, Raffe admits, "I've been worried. There's no telling how much trouble you can get yourself into."

"I guess I can always count on Feathered Armor to scoop me out of trouble." I poke his elbow, smiling up at him. "You shouldn't have been worrying, though. Bryon was just showing me some artwork, and the history of this place. It was so boring it was relaxing."

Raffe chuckles darkly. "Nice, safe places are rather dull, aren't they? Not at all exciting. Nothing to pump the blood."

Laughing to myself, I turn my eyes up to Raffe's. "There are plusses and minuses. At least in here, there's no killer cherub angel things."

Accompanying my laugh with his, Raffe meets my gaze. "I don't know, the 'killer cherub angel things' would've made it worthwhile. Imagine how boring life would be without challenges. No, if it had been just me, I do believe I would've taken my chances."

I do not laugh at this, I do not dare laugh. For if he had been on his own, he never would have been in that sort of a situation. He would've never been involved in such a fiasco if it had just been him. He would've flown off, far from the area before the cherubs could reach him.

I look away from his gaze, falling silent.

* * *

I again dream of the white-haired angel – Audiat.

Except this time, she's in danger.

_I had joined the dream too late to see how the beautiful she-angel had managed to get herself ensnared in the messy folds of barbed wire and spiked thorns set up. It seems as if it'd been created to catch the graceful arches of an angel's wings in its serrated jaws, each tooth curved to impale. _

_Desperately, she claws at the wing that'd been entangled by the iron trap, glancing fearfully over the horizon from where sounds of dogs barking and men calling echo. A gunshot hisses. Spooked by the sudden noise, her hands slips, and her arm falls onto another of the spikes. She screams with alarm as the fangs slide effortlessly into her flesh and wails as barbed wire wraps around like containing arms. _

_Baring her teeth, she kicks at the mess of wire and spikes, flapping her free wing vigorously. High-pitched sounds of exhaustion begin to whine from her throat, but her determination only seems to grow with each new strip of barbed wire that twines around her various limbs. The dogs grow nearer and nearer as she struggles to escape. _

_Crying out with frustration, Audiat slams the heel of her boot into the heart of the mess as people cross over the distant hill. They're dark brown against the horizon, a bitter change from the mossy green of everything else in the forest. Audiat howls in pain as her foot is captured by the snare. Breathing heavily, she strains one last time against the trap, but only manages to send a barbed spike all the way through her forearm, and to sink one even deeper into her ankle. _

_The men begin to laugh and catcall as they approach, lifting bizarre, futuristic guns over their heads and jeering in strange tongues. Their savagery is obvious to me as they slink closer to the injured she-angel, the primitive hunger in their eyes frightening. I have only seen little Audiat in two dreams, and, in both, I've found myself fearing for her. _

_Before the toothy-grinned men can reach her, though, a shadow moves among the forest, a much brighter shade of brown than the musky hunting clothes of the humans. It dances like a shadow as a figure races down a steep hillside, perpendicular to the approaching humans. I know who it is before he bolts into the light, know the flutter of that brown cloak enough to recognize his approach. _

_Bryon slams on the breaks as he enters Audiat's little clearing, his bronze eyes wide. In his prime, his lower twenties, his dashing handsomeness is again like a slap to the face – it seem surreal to have him as an uncle of all things. The sunlight filters from above, fusing his brown hair with chatoyant gold and bronze. The only thing missing from the picture is a staff twirling in one hand. _

_Audiat whips around, her red eyes wide. Shrieking in alarm, she tries to smack him with the broad of her free wing. Bryon ducks effortlessly, allowing the red roan feathers to sail over his head. Not allowing her the time for another blow, he bolts forward, fingers roaming frenetically over the barbed wire. After undoing a few coils by hand, he curses and pulls out a pocket knife from one pocket. _

_"What are you doing?" Audiat yells, hitting the back of his head with her wing. _

_"Duck," responds Bryon with his signature voice like church bells, swiftly throwing an arm over her shoulder and dragging her to the ground. A bullet whistles over their head. Without even registering it, Bryon continues to hack at the wires trapping Audiat. The wires popping and quivering into place, he frees her arm before moving onto her wing. _

_"Who the hell are you?" whispers Audiat, flexing her hand experimentally, but then grimacing in agony. "Why are you doing this?"_

_Bryon glances back at her wounded arm, wincing in sympathy. "Ouch. Try not to move that, I'll stitch it up later."_

_More bullets scream overhead, burying themselves deep into the trunks of trees. The men draw closer, not even a hundred yards away. Their dogs bay at the ends of their chains. _

_"Who are you?" the she-angel repeats impatiently. With a twang, her leg comes free. Tenderly, Bryon helps her slide the barbed hooks from her flesh with steady hands and a slow touch. Audiat cries out softly, but he calms her with a stroke down her shin. _

_"I am Bryon." Rising into a crouch where the peak of his back is visible over the mesh of wires, he hacks savagely at the wires disgruntling Audiat's magnificent red feathers. With one hand, he slices, and with the other, he straightens her feathers and inspects wounds. _

_Cursing colorfully, Audiat watches the men approach with wide red eyes. "Well, Bryon, I'm grateful for your chivalry, but if there's any way you could hurry, it'd be great." _

_"There." Bryon releases a slow breath and cuts through the last piece of barbed wire, removing his bruised hands from the mess. His own blood trickled down his fingers, landing on the ground in heavy crimson drops. "Can you ease it from the spikes quickly? I do not think there's the time."_

_"Oh." Audiat's high voice impossibly skyrockets to another octave as she grimaces painfully. Her hand gropes for something to squeeze as she starts to pull her wing from the barbs, allowing me my first glance at its grotesquely splintered appearance and the unnatural bend in its frame. Bryon allows her to grip his hand with a squeeze I know can't be pleasant for him to endure. "Oh. Oh, God, oh, God Almighty." _

_She sighs with relief as the last barb slips from her skin, tension leaving her shoulders. But Bryon does not relax at the new development. Instead, he turns rapidly, snatching Audiat into his arms. Her two wings hand between his arms. He cradles her tiny form like a child against his chest, heedless of her struggles. _

_"Trust me," Bryon thunders as she raises her fist to smite him. "Please. Just trust me." His bronze eyes glow as he rises to his full height, rocketing down the hill at full speed. The men holler at him primitively, shaking their guns in disappointment. A few shoot at him. Most bullets ricochet off the surrounding terrain, missing Bryon's swiftly fleeing form by a wide margin, but one finds its mark. _

_Bryon stumbles as a projectile buries itself in his shoulder. His breath catches, and Audiat's eyes widen. _

_But still, he runs onward, legs pounding against the earth, until he's far beyond the reach of the hunters' weapons, escaping into the green woods with the wounded she-angel cradled in his grasp. _

* * *

My eyes snap open, revealing nothing but eerie darkness and the flicker of dying embers. There is no one up but Scruffy, his reflective eyes gleaming in the darkness. Gaze landing on the slumbering Bryon, curled up with his cloak and staff, I can't help but wonder what happened after that. I don't have a doubt it's where he first met Audiat, but I wonder if it's also where something much more important than that began as well.

Humming quietly beneath my breath, I sigh and snuggle into my musty blankets, warm beneath their coarse fabric and content in the circle of those I know will protect me and my sister.

* * *

**First and foremost, very sorry for not updating for so long! It seems like it's been ages, and I realized just how much I've missed your reviews! I've been so weighed down by school and other activities that I haven't had the time to type. When I do, it's too late to really jot anything down but utter crap. Bear with me, I beg!**

**POLL: Bryon hates Raffe – it's said, it's done, it's known. But do you think he's the sort of fellow that may highly disapprove of a relationship with Wrath of God and his niece? The sort of fellow that may do something to stop it if it grows too potent?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

It isn't until the boy laughs that I realize I'm yet again dreaming vividly.

_"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" he laughs, joyously springing from rock to rock like a mountain goat. The majestic red and orange sheer cliffs are no match for his monkeylike agility. His legs and arms seem almost too large for his body, like gangly additions to his limbs. When his two bare feet smack the sandy bottom of the canyon, he rises without difficulty or strain, still smiling broadly. _

_Unease shivers over me. The boy's cinnamon hair and his coppery eyes are all too familiar – he's a spitting image of Hugo, except… it's also not. Too tall, too lean, too smiley. The twinkling excitement in his eyes is a boyish quality that Hugo simply doesn't have. _

_The focus of his attention is pale against the bright canyon background. Slender limbs and aerodynamic feathers bat uselessly at the air. An angel struggles to right itself, her albino hair sifting through the red dust. One of her wings is splashed with wet, glistening crimson, bent at a cruel angle. Desperately, she kicks out at him, hissing in defense. _

_"Whoa there," the boy soothes, hopping closer. His eyes dart about playfully. "I won't hurt you. Probably couldn't hurt you if I tried. Mentally _or_ physically. There's no way that I'd be able to overpower an angel. Set a trap for an angel, maybe. But fight one?" He whistles in awe. "Wait, am I babbling?"_

_"Scram!" the she-angel hisses, huddling in a pathetic warrior crouch. I can't tell if she's naturally this pale, or if it's from the blood loss of her massive wing-wound. Her amethyst purple eyes are suspicious, alarmingly bright against the rest of her – in fact, the she-angel's appearance reminds me slightly of Josiah and his vibrant eyes against his light color arrangement. _

_"I can't fight an angel, but I'm sure as hell not afraid of one." The boy strides closer, folding his hands behind his back as he studies her wings. "Hmm. That doesn't look good. You know, this is a very dangerous part of the canyon. Lots of meanies lurking about."_

_"Then why are you here?" the she-angel growls, continuing to swivel as he stalks in large circles around her. _

_The boy's eyes twinkle a bit brighter. "Because danger and I, we've got this thing where we try to outlive each other. It's the most fun in the world, I'll teach you how to play the game some time. But right now, you don't look so great. How bad is your wing?"_

_"I can still snap a neck," the she-angel threatens, her intact feathers bristling. Alarm, fearful and uncertain, dominates her proud features. _

_"It looks snapped." The boy nods to himself, inching closer. "Right through the bone. Yikes. You know, there's a healer in the village. If you want, I can take you to him."_

_The she-angel's taut posture softens slightly, her pale eyebrows furrowing in misunderstanding. "Village? You are not from a city?"_

_With a merry laugh, the boy tosses his head up. His cheery chortles hold the kind of affable joy that almost makes me want to laugh along with him. When his laughter does quiet down, the boy is still wiping his eyes, grinning broadly. _

_"Do I look like I'm from a city?" He gestures at his threadbare clothing with an amused wave of the hand. "Well? Do I look like one of those butt-kissing snobs? No, rural and proud. We don't need technology to do everything for us around here, and it makes us better people. Better people to everyone, might I add. Look, I have a farm, down the way a bit. Me and my family."_

_"Oh." The she-angel blinks. She narrows her dark purple eyes suspiciously, shrewdly studying his figure. "What are you doing so far out here?"_

_"I told you." He smirks cockily, striding up to the she-angel with a gangly lope. "Attracting trouble." His shadow falls over her, lean and twisted. Extending one hand to her, the boy questions, "So, angel, what's your name? We've got to tell the doctor something, after all."_

_Cautiously, the she-angel takes his hand. Her slender fingers slip into his knobby and calloused working hands. Distrust still shines in her eyes, but she allows his farmer-boy muscles to heft her from the ground, leaning against his rock strength. As the boy positions her arm over his neck so he can lift most of her weight, the she-angel answers. _

_"Janiel." She shifts her weight, laying it against the boy's ready position. "My name is Janiel. What do they call you?"_

_"Janiel?" The boy laughs, taking the first hobbling step forward. Red dust mushrooms in the air around his stride, staining the she-angel's white garbs with ruddy smears. "Janiel is a long name. You mind if I call you Jane? Or Feathers?"_

_"Do _not_ call me Jane."_

_"Sure thing, Feathers." Head swiveling, the boy faces her with an abrogating smirk. "My name's Ivan. But don't call me that, it's no fun. Call me, I dunno, Dusty or something. My friends call me Dusty. My little brother doesn't, though."_

_The she-angel casts one puzzling glance in his direction. "What does your brother call you, then… Dusty?"_

_Ivan grins broadly. "Scruffy. My little brother calls me Scruffy."_

* * *

With a strangled gasp, I awaken, snapping upright. My obnoxious breathing fills the air like the crackling of plastic, impossible to ignore. From against the wall, the wolf's head rises slightly, ears tilting towards my direction and eyes saturated with curiosity. And, in that moment, terrible grief rips through me.

I stare at Hugo's poised sleeping form – he's curled in the fetal position against Scruffy's side, ever muscle tense. Not a blanket shields him from the cold, not a pillow cushions his head. But he seems strangely at home, at peace, against his wolf's side.

It's as if I can see the scared little boy longing for his big, scruffy brother and naming his pet wolf after that fallen family member.

Yes. Hugo must've named his wolf after his brother.

That must be what happened.

And the fact that Scruffy's mate is a wolf named Jane must be a pure coincidence.

Sweat breaks out on my forehead. With quivering limbs, I rise from the blankets, shrugging off their oily folds. Paige stirs as I rise, curling in on herself more, but luckily, her breath does not quicken into a pace of coherency. It's not until I have a higher vantage point on the sleeping travelers that I realize one of our number is missing from the ranks, and that a light shines way in the distance, a single droplet of orange paint on a black canvas, down the long corridor.

Glancing once down at Raffe's peaceful slumbering face, I break into a slow jog, trying to measure my steps and keep them as silent as possible. But sneakers against stone have never been known to create the softest noise. Wincing with each stride, I draw nearer and nearer to the light, drawing the attention of the man who lifts the torch.

I can catch Bryon's bronze eyes gleam from quite a distance, like an animal's feral reflectiveness. He lifts the torch higher to cast more light over the ground I tread upon as I approach, watching me in silence until I arrive, puffing, standing by his side.

"What are you doing up?" Bryon murmurs, the malleable concern shaping his expression without a trace of reluctance or selfishness. He claps one hand on my upper forearm, as if to steady me should I fall. "Did I wake you? If I did, well, sorry. I thought everyone was out cold."

"They are," I reassure him, smiling frailly. "I just… remember how I said I've been having weird dreams? I just want to escape them."

Bryon's eyes widen. His concerns seem to have only been whetted by my excuse. "Are they bothering you? I'm sure we could brew something up to help you sleep. It wouldn't take but a moment."

"No." Curtly, I shake my head. "No, I'm up now. I'll hate myself in the morning, but I'm up. And you know what? So are you. What are you doing, Bryon?"

"Viewing the art down this chamber." Bryon pivots towards the wall, revealing that it is in fact not stone, but instead a massive mural, depicting an angel about fifteen feet tall. "It would be extremely rude of me to do so in front of Raphael. He can be obnoxious and impolite, but I sure as heck won't."

"Why?" I half-cock my head towards him. "And what am I looking at?"

Bryon's voice is abruptly quiet. "You're looking at the interpretation of the Seven Deadly Sins." The light flickers sinisterly over his face. "And Raphael is depicted as one of them. It would not be right."

"Oh." I, too, lower my volume, and study the brawny angel. Amber and orange flames lick around him, his frame engulfed by the fire, glinting off his armor. "Which sin is this?"

Bryon takes a step forward, pressing the palm of his hand to the old, crinkling paint. "Pride. Sin of Michael."

An angel's pride is a sin. How deliciously ironic.

"And the next?" Striding to the edge of Bryon's torchlight, I gaze up into the eyes of the angel. This one is more coiled in his nest of blue and purple flames, his eyes narrower and his sneer curled over his lips. Bryon follows me with a slower gait, ancient wisdom gleaming in his eyes.

"Sloth. Sin of Haniel."

"Haniel?" I glance up at him in confusion. "Who's that?"

"Actually, Thea took him out earlier in the sequence of this building war with her attack of New York. He is no longer a problem. His sin is that he saw Gabriel take power, but did nothing to stop it – he was comfortable, and so he would stay that way. Onto the next one?"

I nod numbly. But as the torchlight illuminates the grey and silver flames coddling with the angel smirking cleverly from the paint on the next mural, I find that an explanation is not necessary.

"Uriel," I whisper. "What sin is he known for?"

"Envy. Uriel was not driven by ambition to bid for the place as angelic Messenger. He was always envious of those that had something better than him – do you remember when I told you that some angels were mistreated because they were intelligent when Gabriel seized control? He was caught in that flood, and it made him bitter and jealous."

"Oh." Awkwardness plagues me; it's much simpler to imagine that Uriel had always been bad instead of picturing him as a bullied outcast finally getting the respect he deserves.

"I'm not saying his pitiful past reconciles his other wrongs," Bryon adds after a moment of silence. "There are many ways you can deal with loneliness, and he chose the worst path. But with even the most wretched creature, there is a motive for everything. You must remember that. Come now, let's not dwell on him any longer."

"Alright." Considering this, I gaze up into the golden eyes of the next angel. White flames tipped in metallic gold coil around him, the smug superiority on his face downright irritating, even if it is solely a painting.

Bryon sighs, shaking his head slowly. "Greed. Sin of Gabriel."

"Gabriel?" I tilt my head towards Bryon. "Why him?"

Bryon shrugs, still walking, gradually leaving the angel behind. "His thirst for power was great, and, in the end, his greed was his undoing. There is not much to be said in his case."

"Good." I release a short puff of air. Gesturing towards the oily black fire with red centers and the sly angel with black feathers, I await Bryon's response.

"Lust." Bryon's expression blackens. "Sin of Jerahmeel, the first Watcher, the one who will never rise from that Pit. He did not take a wife out of love or affection. He simply wanted to enjoy the pleasures he believed that would arise from a female's submission. His bones will forever lay on the bottom of Hell, cracking form the weight of the demons and monstrosities he bears. It's what he deserves, after putting Ogden through living hell."

I glance sideways at Bryon, surprise fueling my tone of voice. "This Jerahmeel guy, this is Ogden's father?"

Bryon's lips quirk. "I told you Ogden wasn't to be meddled with. He was there for most of the ancient history that's taught in schools. But let us not waste time – there are two more to go."

"Right." I tap the green paint of the flames in question. "Who's this guy, what did he do?"

"Gluttony. Sin of Selaphiel." Bryon's brow furrows. "Actually, I don't know the particulars of his sin. I do know that, during a siege on the angels, he hoarded his food supplies so he would be plenty cozy while his companions starved. A pretty selfish thing to do."

"Hmm." I'm about to ask about the next one, but my eyes clap upon the figure, and I know. My stomach reels at the brutality of the painting, the wild gleam in Wrath's eyes.

_Wrath of God. _

He had so arrogantly titled himself it when we had first met. But this picture of him brings about a new meaning to the name.

Crimson flames the exact color of freshly spilled blood lap at his caramel figure. There is primal ugliness in his posture alongside the angelic beauty. Snowy wings sharply contrast the copper paint heading every tongue of flame. He bears his feathers with fury, his hands closed around Pooky Bear's hilt, muscles prepared for any threat. The cruelty in each stroke of the brush almost does not unite with the angel I know.

And yet, in some way, deep in my stomach, it does.

"Raffe," I whisper around the building lump in my throat, reaching out to brush the painting with the tips of my fingers. Even if I were to jump and to strain, my hand would not reach beyond his shin. Seeing his portrait here, amongst the other angels in a chamber that'd been carved from the earth centuries before, I can't help but truly think about Raffe, and all he has done.

"Wrath." Bryon sighs wearily, his eyes roaming over the mural. "Such a strange title for him, 'Wrath of God.' The only wrath he ever experiences is his own bitterness, and yet he blames his authorities, sticking to his rules and codes of how the world works and how he _must_ behave to aid the flailing conscience he has left. Now, his decisions are his to make. I wonder if he wants to even keep such a title."

"He said he's done terrible things," I whisper softly, spanning half the gap separating the painting and I with one tentative hand. "Just how terrible, Bryon? What got him this sort of painting?" I study the savage anger lining the painted face.

It is a long time before Bryon answers. "Raphael lives in a harsh and belligerent world, where blades are hidden in the cushions of every couch. What he always seems to forget is that just because the world is cruel doesn't mean he has to be." Bryon glances sideways at me, an emotion I can't quite comprehend shining in his eyes. "Promise me, Penryn, that you'll never forget, alright?"

Startled by the sudden request, I meet his gaze with reprehensible speed. "I'll try my best not to."

The answer doesn't seem quite satisfactory to Bryon, but he takes it. Staring up at the massive Raffe once more, he releases a ratiocinating sigh. "I know much more than anyone about Raphael's sins and his demons, but, in the same respect, I feel like I know his soul, his being, very well. I know him well enough to tell you that he doesn't want you to know his past. I respect him as an adversary enough to refuse to impart with any knowledge you don't already have in check."

"You two fought often, then?" I question quietly, staring up at the giant Raffe, lost in distant thought.

"Very often," Bryon recalls, dry smile pulling at his lips. "I would always meet the brunt of the storm, distracting him and drawing him away from any Nephilim lairs he may stumble upon."

"You did that as a dragon, right?" I check, glancing once in his direction for confirmation.

"Yes." Bryon smirks to himself. "He was nimble compared to me, but I still managed to escape every time."

"You're big, then?"

"Oh, yes, very big." Bryon's smile broadens. "Even back in those days."

"How big?" I inquire curiously, eyes darting up and down his muscled body.

Bryon chuckles, a melodious sound like the ringing of bells. "_Very_ big. Large enough to make women weep and children run. I'd show you if I could, but…"

"Raffe." I nod. "Right. Okay. Maybe some other time."

"Oh, yes," snarls a new voice, "God forbid Raffe step in and ruin everything." He melts from the shadows, arms folded tautly across his chest, fists balled, and lips pulled back into something grim that looks almost like a dog's growl. The shadows play with his angered expression, laughing and dancing as he stalks up to Bryon with pissed strides. Upon his approach, Bryon stiffly straightens, lifting his chin and tilting his head slightly.

As Raffe draws near, I realize just how inappropriate the last topic of our conversation could've sounded like to one not "in the know". The color drains from my face.

"Raffe," I whisper, rigid as a board. "What are you –"

"Investigating the distant voices and absence of two happy campers," he answers before I can finish the question. Still, his furious gaze does not waver from Bryon's. "You haven't been very quiet. Tell me, what exactly are you two doing in the middle of the night that requires long walks in the dark?"

"He's just showing me some of the artwork! Pretty paintings!" I protest, stepping forward, attempting to wedge my body between the two fuming giants. Their testosterone has led them to a point far beyond my reach, though, and I can feel the dissonance in the room exciting.

Bryon's even yet pissed gaze is considerably threatening. "Penryn's been having rough dreams. I suppose _you_ wouldn't have noticed, but she needed to get her mind off of them. We were having a fine time in the middle of the night."

"She seems to be just fine." Raffe's jaw clenches. "Well enough to interrogate."

"Yes, well, it's amazing what a bit of loving, tender care can do for a person." Bryon bristles, and it's clear that he's not backing down. "As if you'd know anything about that."

"_Enough!_" I bellow out, stamping a foot in frustration. My instincts go wild – a mouse is not supposed to interrupt a vicious battle between predators, and I know that. Evidently, both Raffe and Bryon know that as well. Raffe straightens his spine, pulling back into a regal state of rage. His malevolent glare focuses on me, brilliant eyes narrowing with the magnificent brutality of a predator. Bryon's thin-lipped grimness doesn't change in the slightest, his umbrage visible in his bronze gaze.

From somewhere down the hall, Hugo's sleepy voice calls, "Oh, for fuck's sake, stop having midnight conversations!"

Lowering my voice into a deep, susurrus whisper, "Raffe. Talk. You and I. Now."

Bryon chuckles. "I fear you may have awakened the sleeping giant, my _friend_." He pats Raffe on the shoulder, but there's no friendliness in the gesture – he might as well have pounded Raffe. Temper flaring once more, I raise my eyebrows at him.

"Bryon, be rude again, and I will not blame Raffe if he rips you open. In fact, he'll have all rights."

Bryon smirks at me. He seems amused by the concept of Raffe ripping him open more than anything. With a cheeky roll of his eyes, he sighs and starts back towards the camp, flame bobbing with each stride. "Right. I'll leave you two to it." He turns back slightly to wave, meeting my gaze with intensely complex emotions hidden in his eyes, the movement sending ripples of golden light over his brown cloak. "Good luck."

I watch him leave for as long as possible, almost certain that, if Raffe should get out of hand, I can count on him being on my side in a moment's notice. Despite his childlike dispute, my respect for my uncle remains.

With dragging reluctance, I turn back to face Raffe's fuming emotions. He is plunged in darkness – there is not even a watery gleam for me to discern where his eyes are. It seems vision is on his side this round. Squinting at the darkness, I peer in the direction of the low, rumbling growl thundering deep in Raffe's chest.

"Would you," he booms in a clenched tone, "like to explain to me what was going on? What was so big of his that I couldn't see?"

My eyes fly towards the general direction of the floor. "Can't tell you. Sorry."

"Oh?" Ice seals over his tone, sharpening it into a crystalline blade. "Why? Because he won't allow you to?"

"No," I lie. "Because, when I do tell you, it's got to be the right moment. And now's not that time."

"What the hell could you possibly have to tell me that has to… to… wait for some sort of stage cue?" Raffe hisses in frustration. "Do you even realize how much this troubles me? How on edge I am?"

"I've noticed your edginess," I confess, glaring at him fierily. "But I've just been accrediting it to the fact that you don't trust anyone, Han Solo."

"It's because of them." Raffe's voice drops into lower tones, as if he doesn't want any sensitive ears catching the splintered fragments of his speech. "Penryn, I know you're at peace here, but there is something about this situation that doesn't seem quite right. I do not trust any of them. Their claims at generosity are too much of a miracle. And I do not like staying here." I can almost feel Raffe glance in the direction of the dimmed embers, the way he rubs at the back of his neck palpable in the air. "I do not like it at all."

My heart is strained. All my being wishes to help console Raffe's nervousness and soothe his soul, but the acute points of logic and love in Bryon's side of the challenge tip the scales. Evading the subject of choosing, I ask, "Why? What's bothering you, specifically?" Awkwardly, I fumble in the darkness until I find the arm sculpted with sinew and muscle lying in its embrace. I hold what I believe is his forearm and attempt to direct my gaze where his eyes may or may not be. "We can try to fix it."

Raffe sighs. His anger seems to seep from him, every word lowering in strain until he only speaks with anxiety. "There are many things which are to discuss. The way Hugo claimed he carried no angel swords on him, but I saw them before, carried them on my back as we fled the cherubs. They whispered to me, but none of it made any sense – they spoke in gibberish. Bryon – he is too young to lead, his face unhardened as a leader's shouldn't be, but he preaches like an old man in a chapel. His ominous plans are really causing sleepless nights. He's just made it pretty clear he despises me with fervent passion. I'm not sure I want to go wherever he's leading me to get my wings stitched back on."

"Alright." I massage my thumb over his smooth skin in soothing circles. "So, if we were to separate from Bryon and Hugo the moment we left this temple or whatnot, what's your plan?"

Tactical logic enters Raffe's voice. "For my wings? I'd go to the she-aerie. There's one, a bit far from here, but we should be able to make it. I'd get one of the surgeons there to –"

"You're going to get another she-angel to do your wings?" Disbelief colors my tone, raising my volume slightly. "That did not work out for you so well last time. And isn't that Ariel archangel pissed at you?"

"True." Reluctantly, Raffe sighs. "I don't see how I could go about it any other way, though. In order to earn the Messenger status, I'd have to win the votes of the she-angels as well. They might be able to vote on that, if not, when I get my wings back, I'll make sure they can. If I sweet-talk Ariel into a feminist agreement, I'm almost positive we can work something out."

"It's not a bad plan." I tilt my head to one side, still searching for his eyes. "But what about Paige?"

Raffe falls silent.

"And what about our lack of supplies?"

Still, he says nothing.

Struggling to keep my tone professional, I sigh levelly. "I don't really know about this, Raffe. Maybe we should at least hear out what Bryon has to offer."

"So we have to improvise a bit, isn't that what we've done so far?" Raffe coaxes. "We've wasted too much time with them. This cavern lasts forever. I'm not sure if my men have forever."

"And I'm not sure that I want to drag my sister back into an angel stronghold," I argue back, stationing my defensives.

"There are many kind… and… fluffy angels at the she-aerie. They are not half the warriors that the males are, much more –"

"You know," I hum, irritated by the sexist note in his conversation, "I can see why they like rebelling so much. A female is always better than an angel, no matter what the species."

His immense surprise is slightly amusing. "You know about the she angel's rebellion?"

I nod knowledgeably, squaring my shoulders importantly. "Bryon told me. It was what, we were, y'know, talking about before you came here." I scratch at my neck.

"Hmm." Raffe doesn't sound convinced. "My point is, Penryn, that this is a dog-eat-dog world. It doesn't make a speck of sense for them to just drop everything and assist us because your sister has puppy dog eyes. They've got to have ulterior motives."

"Yeah, probably." I smirk. "Hugo's probably going to want a few secrets in return for his services, and Bryon a few stories. Maybe some metal parts for Ogden, and a big chew toy for Scruffy."

"Penryn, please be serious."

"I am completely serious." I harden myself against any of Raffe's pleas, turning my heart to stone and will to iron. "I'm not going to go along with you on this plan of yours, not quite yet. I'm going to follow Bryon and see what he can offer me before I make an official decision, at least judging the strategy in his approach of the problem. I want to see all the cards before picking a hand. If Lucius is really the only way to go about this" – I swallow, eyes downcast – "then I'll go smart-mouth that demon. And if going to the she-aerie is the only way to get your wings back" – once more, my eyes grope through the darkness for his gaze – "then I'll follow through with whatever we have to do. That's my logic. Okay?"

"Penryn…" Desperation claws at his tone. True emotion shines through. "Can't we just leave them behind? Get back to the road, you, your sister, and I?"

My heart clenches. Slowly, I draw away, releasing his hand. "I'm sorry, Raffe, but I've got to think about family first. And Bryon's got a way to help my sister. He may have a way to help you out, too, that doesn't jeopardize your wings and lead us on another adventure."

Raffe's silence stretches beyond my comfort zone. Grabbing at my own forearm as a poor substitute for his, eyes roaming the darkness awkwardly. For all I know, he could've crept off into the darkness to think, leaving me alone by the paintings.

Tentatively, reaching one hand out cautiously into the darkness, I whisper his name. The abyss of shadows whispers back, until Raffe banishes it with the thrum of his voice.

"I'm still here," he murmurs quietly, his position not having moved an inch from where it was last. "I think you're making a mistake, a mistake that will burn both our asses, but I'm still here."

Those three words bring surprising amounts of comfort to me in the dark confines of the Temple. My shoulders unclench. Sighing softly, I smile at my feet. "Good. I don't like fighting."

"Can't say I'm fond of butting heads with your bullish tenacity," Raffe grunts. "You're like a big bulldog, you know that?"

"I am not!" I cry defensively, unsure of where to direct my daggered glare.

"Of course you are. You even breathe like one." Raffe's crackly imitation of wet, slobbery panting is far from what a dog really sounds like. It echoes petulantly off the stone, filling the chamber. "See? That's what you sound like."

I sniff disdainfully in his general direction, turning on heel and heading back towards the campfire. "I can't believe you think I sound like a dog," I call over my shoulder.

Raffe's voice is directly next to me, keeping pace with each footstep of mine. "Look, you even walk by my side, like a little puppy."

"_You_ are so following _me_ right now," I accuse, glaring from where his voice had originated from. "Don't even try to deny it, kitty-cat."

"Kitty-cat?" Raffe thunders from the dark.

"Yeah." I smirk smugly. "Really finicky, adored by the internet, fascinated with common objects like laser pointers, and cranky when woken up from sleep."

"You think I am fascinated with _laser pointers_?" Raffe chuckles tightly from the back of his throat. It's as if I can feel him bristling from the insult by my side.

"What's the problem, tiger?" I cast a snide glance his direction. "Cat got your tongue?"

"You are so not funny right now, it's hilarious." Raffe's voice is more a growl than a mew, but it's humorous all the same. "The fact that you think you're funny is even more amusing. Wipe that smirk off your face, you really are just a drooling mutt tossing a ball to itself."

"It's not my fault that you're a stick in the mud." Smiling broader, I start to swing my feet with each stride, putting my hands in my pockets. "Lighten up, tiger. Have some fun." I hesitate, choosing my next words clumsily, without an inkling of finesse. "Here's the part where I'd poke you in the ribs or something. But I actually don't know where you are."

At this, the ghost of a laugh leaves Raffe's lips, the melodious chord prickling my skin with unexpected pleasure. "Good thing, too. You're a hard poker."

"Stop flirting and shut up!" Hugo bellows.

Yipping once with excitement at his master's voice, Scruffy pounces on Hugo's slumbering form, the wolf's squirming attempts to wiggle beneath Hugo's blankets illuminated by the fire's dying shadow.

* * *

**Well. That was that. **

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**~wolfluvermh**


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen**

_The she-angel stumbles forward, deeper into the heart of the crumbling city. Her reddish brown wings tremble, as if she can detect something in the air – as a matter of fact, so can I. There is a presence surrounding the area, an aura so powerful it can reach into my dreams and still inspire the tremor of fearful respect. It is almost as if a god's breath muffles the area, their very soul draping it in mystery and power._

_Her surroundings are regally depressing and carry the bearings of former glory – white and silver marble carved into collapsed houses and temples, pillars shaped like pencils still soaring to the sky, their pointed edges dulling slightly with each new breeze to whip through the chilly place. Even the floor she so cautiously treads upon is riddled with ominous cracks, not nearly as deep as the broad canyons and narrow crevices so large that mist shields the very bottoms of their pits from sight, but still dangerous if one were to catch a foot in the snare of cracks. Overhead, the ceiling is rocky and patchy, as if the cave this desolate city is hidden in has been compromised – perhaps it is a Chaza, a Nephilim Temple, one abandoned much before ours. Whatever the case, frosty white sunlight shafts from multiple holes in the ceiling, providing atmospheric lighting. _

_Audiat's particular location is on the main road, like the one we travel. Two cracks in the skin of the earth run on either side, wide enough that it puts the Colorado River to shame, probably deeper than any of the other cracks. The peninsula she cautiously approaches the edge of only grows riskier and riskier as she draws nearer to the point of the triangle, the ridges and crevasses crisscrossing the stone becoming increasingly unstable. More and more pebbles rattle off the edges, bounding off the sides of the massive canyons. _

_Despite the obvious fear in her eyes and the lack of weapons on her person, Audiat continues, treading lightly down the center of the path. As the presence's weight seems to increase to me, I can only imagine what she might be feeling at this moment. _

_The little angel's bravery astounds me – she plods onward, hopping over rocks and sliding beneath toppled pillars without stirring her feathers once. With head held high, she approaches the edge of the peninsula. _

_At the very tip of the triangular stone section, an out-of-place green bush grows, the only color besides Audiat herself in the austere landscape. A stream with crystalline waters encircles the bush, constantly moving in a circle despite the lack of gravity's sense. On the far side of where the two canyons connect, a mighty churchlike construction stands, with brilliant crumbled pillars and collapsed statues. It is closer than the other opposite banks had been, but still, very far. _

_Audiat truly begins to shake as she approaches the bush. Her feet slide over the rubble. Dropping into a crouch, she struggles to continue walking, as if the bush is warding her off, keeping her away. The presence's weight on my soul grows with every step she takes in the direction of the bush. Upon reaching the outskirts of the circular stream, she collapses to her knees, bowing before the bush. _

_"Please." Voice like a fragile swallow in the storm, Audiat lifts her head to allow a slight increase in volume. "Please, Great One. I have heard so much about you, about your teachings – wisdom, they say, forms your armor, and instead of flesh and blood, they poured gold into the mold of your heart. I know you have heard so much from other passengers and ignored them. Why should you not shake the ants from your hide? But please, please help me. The need is dire. I need your help."_

_The room shakes. Cascades of dust fall from the ceiling. But before Audiat or I can fully get a grip on the situation, the quivering stops, put at rest once more. Swallowing, her breaths as shuddery as my heart's pulse, Audiat calls out once more, "Please! It isn't just I who requires your judgment! I speak on behalf of the she-angels! On behalf of the humans! On behalf of the beasts!"_

_At this, the room quivers a little longer. It almost seems this time as if something is crawling from the depths of the canyons, claws rocking the mountain with each step it takes forward. _

_"I need your guidance," Audiat continues, her voice choking. "Not just on professional matters, but on personal. The beasts – they are led by you, they say, but I only ever see them following that man with his billowing cloak. He's vanished. His wisdom has failed us. I do not know what to do. If trouble has fallen upon him, I am never to forgive myself."_

_A curious hiss sounds from the depths, echoing mightily. It rebounds off the stone and distorts the noise until the entire room is hissing at Audiat. _

_"I was the one who struck out," Audiat explains, regret sharp on her tongue. "He was being a good leader. Trying to stick by his people. He let himself get captured by the he-angels, allowed himself to be shackled and carted off like a mad dog so his people could get away in time. And I disapproved of that. I said some things I'd rather not tell. He's gone missing, and I'm afraid that something terrible will happen to him. Please, Dragon, help me."_

_Responding to the little angel's pleas, the beast rises from the gloom. _

_All I see is the long coil of neck, thick and sinuous. From the mist it comes, rising to an impressive height. Tendrils of fog hug the rough scales. Muscular shoulders are half-shrouded by the pit's mist. Slitted eyes peel open, bright and chatoyant in the dim white light. Beautiful horns curl from the back of its head, the grooves imprinted into the horns almost making it seem like it was carved from a tree. Starting between its horns, long, thin bristles with broad sides cascade down its nape, almost like a small mane. Its scales seem to be have been all forged from tiger's eye, gleaming mystically, bronze and gold and brown all overlapping one another in an impenetrable armor. I should fear the long muzzle and the ivory teeth that undoubtedly lay underneath the dragon's lips, should fear the flare of its broad nostrils as they taste the air. But those broad, expressive eyes and their grandiose bronze pupils seem to excuse all of its brutality. _

_I cannot think of this beast, with its display of both elegance and strength, as anything other than beautiful. _

_Of course, I could probably span out over its eyeball and not even reach from lid to lid. Even Bryon, with his unnatural height, couldn't even span from lid to lid. The dragon is massive, and it could snap Audiat up on the slightest whim. _

_Lowering its brilliant head until it's level with Audiat, the dragon breathes out through its nose, as if it is inquiring her what she may want. _

_Audiat's eyes are blown wide with stunned awe. Her expression isn't even slightly controlled, the amazement keeping her mouth open and her hands limp by her sides. At last, she whispers, "You're so much more beautiful than the legends describe you to be, King. Magnificence seems to have been woven into your entire being."_

_The dragon tilts its head to one side, but otherwise, does not respond to her compliment. A question gleams in its eyes, goading her to describe her troubles. _

_"We are on the brink of war." Audiat swallows, looking at her hands. "The he-angels are – they're rallying, slamming their swords to their shields and such. Their forces are much superior to ours. They have the sky, and much of our neighboring territories. The continent for which we brawl over is far from here, over a sea. The only reason I came here was to recruit help, and we need it dearly. We have the humans, but we know not how they can be of use to us. True, their brains are clever little things, but they have lived in fear of the he-angels too long. From this continent, though, I equipped the beasts. But now, they are in disarray – their leader scattered them for their own protection, which is cunning, of course. However, they are reluctant to crawl from their holes without his guidance."_

_The dragon chuckles. It starts out a slow, quavering growling, gradually gaining rhythm and volume. He tosses his head up, shaking the cavern and baring his teeth to the sky to allow his laughter to escape. Gasping, Audiat shoots to her feet in recognition of the laughter. I, too, know that melodious chortle. _

_"Do you think I have abandoned you?" thrums Bryon's voice, as he lowers his head back level to Audiat's. His voice is somehow even more glorious, chords of beauty with each word he breathes. Chuckling in amusement once more, Bryon inches slightly closer to her ledge. _

_"Bryon?" Audiat's voice squeaks. "Bryon? You're… you're the dragon on the mountain...?"_

_A piercing shriek fills the air as Bryon lifts his head and shakes his neck like a horse may flick its mane, causing the bronze scales to rattle against each other. The white sunlight dances like moonbeams between his two horns, shafts of light dappling over Audiat's awed face. _

_"But…" Audiat is at loss, staring up at Bryon with confusion. "The dragon has been known to overshadow that little mountain town at the foot of the hills for centuries, overseeing them and warding off evil and things like that. They say that he's the wisest creature to have ever walked the earth. I thought… I thought that…" Disappointment hardens her voice. "I thought the dragon could help me. I thought it was true, everything."_

_Bryon bristles, the long metallic strands on the top of his neck pricking. "Who says that I am not the dragon of which you have heard in legend and lore?" The cavern shakes, as if he's lashing a tail somewhere down in the depths of the caves. "Who says that I have not slumbered here for centuries, imparting knowledge on those who pass? I am the dragon you have heard of, Audiat. I do not deserve many things the locals give me, I but my reputation is one thing they haven't strayed far on. I am wise. I will help you."_

_"When was this going to come up in conversation?" she whispers, staggering forward towards him in utter amazement. "Certainly not before I had to dig up all that research and speak to creepy natives. Of course not. Because that would be stupid."_

_"The less my allies know about me," Bryon answers, deeper voice somehow sexy despite his alien appearance, "the more I can hide from the he-angels, namely Raphael." His nose begins to slightly reach for her, perhaps to catch her scent, perhaps reaching for a stroke. _

_"I understand the points from which you are coming from," Audiat acknowledges, "but why namely Raphael?"_

_Bryon chuckles darkly, turning his eyes to the sky, as if one might be listening. "Raphael has not a clue of what I am capable of. I do not wish for him to awaken my dark side, out of mutual wellbeing."_

_Upon the last word of his speech, the bush before him bursts into flickering orange flames, all by itself _– the strangest thing, however, is that, although the bush burns and fire laps at the wood, the green leaves do not crinkle or wither beneath the blaze.__

Something new happens. With a feeling like my gut is being barraged with razors and my head assaulted with laughing gas, I find my dream has a new focus.

_"Simon," Raffe questions while straightening an article of his bizarre clothing, tightening the band around his neck while staring into a mirror, "what is most powerful to you?"_

_Bryon comes into focus, holding something in one hand behind Raffe, as if he's waiting on the archangel. A manservant, I realize. In response to Raffe's question, Bryon blinks twice. "Sir, I am not sure by what you mean by that."_

_Raffe sighs heavily, pivoting in the mirror. "It was not that difficult a question, Simon. I mean, what is the most powerful force in the world? The most powerful emotion, whatnot. The most powerful… element."_

_"Well, sir," Bryon answers thoughtfully, "I think that love is the most powerful thing in any world."_

_"Love?" Raffe's voice is delightedly amused, as if such an answer is humorous and innocent to him. "That's strange to hear from you, Simon. I would've answered hate, but I'm intrigued. Why is love such a powerful force?"_

_Bryon broods for a second before answering. "Because love is the most powerful force. From it springs happiness and joy, a feeling like you truly belong someplace. From love can come life itself, the little infant's bawl. Partners united by love are inseparable, and love that is true in every regard is to be feared indeed."_

_"Feared?" Raffe's voice is still delighted. "Do exaggerate!"_

_Bryon's gaze is filled with emotions I'm not sure I've quite comes to terms with in him. Shame. Anger. Hate. "Love is terrible in the same regard that it is beautiful, sir. Everything else comes from love, not just beauty. Every dark thought in the world can overwhelm you when you're in love. The wrath of love is the one thing I fear. It's dangerous to be in love – dangerous for those around you. Love may be the opposite of hate, sir, but it is also its irascible mother. Love makes monsters of us all."_

_Raffe is silent for a very long time, adjusting his collar and odd sleeves in the mirror. "Wrath of love." He smirks colorlessly. "I am Wrath of God. And you know something, Simon?"_

_"No, sir."_

_"Neither of us said that God is the most powerful force in the world." Turning to leave, he claps Bryon once on the shoulder, not even glancing at his face. "Whether it's love or hate, we'll have to see, won't we?"_

_"Yes, sir."_

This time, the switch of dreams seems more natural, gentler, as if instead of a raging torrent, I am tossed down the swift waters of a small creek.

_Bryon chuckles bitterly. He leans on the balcony's railing, watching the stars with raw pain in his eyes. His smile quivers, then drops completely. "You are wrong to trust me so completely. You know not what I am. You know not what I have done."_

_"I know that you're a Nephilim." With sparkling eyes, Audiat steps beside him, mimicking his pose, leaning on the balcony beside him. "I know that you've hurt people. But I know that you won't anymore. You've changed."_

_Agony enters Bryon's eyes as he meets her openly expressive gaze. "I am a monster." Shame forces him to glance back down at the ground. "I have done more horrible things than I dare say."_

_"That was the past." Cautiously, Audiat lifts a hand, laying it on the left side of his chest, right over his heart. Through her, I can almost sense the glorious thudding of his lively heart. "I know you, Bryon. You've trusted me even when Ariel thought I was crazy, about that whole white wolf issue. You're a good man, with good morals and a good sense of right and wrong. That's all that matters to me. I don't care what Gabriel says, I don't care what Raphael says. Heck, I don't even care what the world says about people like you. I just know that you are a good man. The best man, perhaps. And nothing you've ever done or ever will do will change my opinion of you."_

_Bryon's eyes melt at her words, and, immediately, I feel as though I'm seeing something I wasn't meant to see. He, too, reaches out and brushes his fingers against her heart. There is nothing steamy in the moment, of course, but the tenderness in which he regards her feels private. _

_"You may be the only one to ever think that," Bryon whispers, voice thick with emotion. _

_"So be it. It simply means I know you better than anyone else." She looks up at the sky, memorizing the speckling stars. "Just between you and me, Bryon, I think that it's the ones that hunt you that are the monsters. I think you're just the good man caught in the crossfires."_

Again, I am thrown into the jumble of dreams, emerging in the same place I had before with its white walls riddled with grey cracks and the fog creeping up from the broad pits. This time, though, instead of Audiat, Bryon is stumbling, crippled, blood leaving a crimson tail in his wake, and Raffe is behind him, approaching with Pooky Bear in hand and wings raised.

_Bryon is wheezing, his panting having a strange, reptilian rasp to them. He's doubled over, hiding from Raffe, as if he's afraid to show what's happening to him. The cloak pools around his legs, somehow spotless despite the battered quality of the rest of his clothes. The pain in each hobbling stride tightens my heart. _

_Raffe is directly behind him, walking forward with steady, threatening strides. His facial expression does not quiver, his hands do not readjust around Pooky Bear's hilt. His snowy white wings are held pricked, not bobbing with his pace, but still and baleful. Wrath of God. _

_They're almost to the bush – Bryon's staggering towards it steadfastly as he can, as if it is his only chance at life. But progress is slow, and Raffe's advance is as steady as the beat of a drum. It comes to the point where Bryon is casting glances over his shoulder, boding him off with palms spread behind his back. _

_With a wet cough, Bryon stumbles uncoordinatedly, bracing himself against the crumbled foot of a pillar. Squinting against the white light, Bryon stares back at Raffe, imploring expression glazed anguish. _

_"You don't understand," Bryon hacks, huddling into himself once more. The pain carried on each note of his voice strains the words, turning each into a thick, raspy gasp. "It's coming. Stop, stop it!"_

_Raffe's stride does not falter – his wings, though, do perk slightly higher, held like a pair of sickles to the pale grey sky. He approaches, black garbs a shock against the pastel surroundings. His frozen expression, contorted revoltingly by rage and hatred, doesn't so much as quaver. _

_Bryon staggers closer to the bush, groping the stones with fingers missing nails, clawing at the floor with rabid desperation. His attempt to escape is strange to me – there is a puzzle piece astray, something I do not quite understand in the situation before me. Raffe is a predator, cornering his prey against sheer cliffs; but Bryon frantically plods towards his trap, and his demeanor is not that of the wounded animal. _

_"No." Bryon cuts off with a breathy gasp, reeling, sucking air into his lungs. For the first time, I notice the gaping wound in his belly as he cranes for air. "Leave! You're… it's coming!" The deepest pang of shock hits me as a tear traces down Bryon's cheek, smacking against the stone floor. "Leave me alone!"_

_"Why?" Raffe's voice is brutal as two knives scraping against each other. "So you can return and kill hundreds of people?"_

_"No." Bryon's voice cracks, and, to stem more tears, he squeezes his eyes shut. "So I won't kill thousands. Go! Please!"_

_Raffe doesn't respond with more than a slight clenching of the jaw. _

_Collapsing on the riparian stones, Bryon's panting grows increasingly ragged as one of his hands sinks to the bottom of the circular stream protecting the bush, staining the placid waters red. It decreases into panicked gasps as he collapses by the bank, lifting his hand from the stream. Holding both up with shaking breaths and trembling limbs, he stares in horror as before our eyes they gnarl, skin sharpening into ridges and scales, fingernails thickening into curling black claws. His repeated blinking draws attention to the slitted pupils replacing the round ones. _

_"It's starting!" he wails, throwing his gnarled hands over his head, clasping at his temples. Between his lips, his teeth seem to lengthen with each pant. Crawling on all fours, he staggers ever closer to the bush. "Lord, dear Lord, save me. Do not let it win, do not let it –"_

_Raffe grabs Bryon by his cloak's neck, dragging the cloak off of him and tossing it elsewhere. Though the cloak is unharmed, it lands on the bush, draping over the scruffy splay of limbs with choppy disorganization. Without his cloak, some other ghastly features of Bryon's are revealed. Long, flat, and scaly hairs emerge from his nape, each a like bronze-tinted mirror. His ragged shirt reveals the beginnings of his refined chest breaking into belly scales. I'm willing to bet that the bulge at the rear of his pants is the beginning of a tail. _

_Before Bryon can reach his bush, Raffe seizes him by the front of the shirt and lifts his above the ground. The frayed fabric does not rip, holding sound. With glazed eyes, Bryon focuses his attention on Raffe as Raffe walks him steadily over to the edge of the cliff. _

_I want to shout. I want to scream. I know that Raffe is no match for a dragon of such size, a dragon that is only refrained by the fragile skin of Bryon. _

_"You don't understand," Bryon nearly sobs as Raffe hefts him over the cliff. "You don't understand. It's coming. I can't control it, Raphael. I can't. Let me go, and I can stop it. I can dam the flood. Please, please, please" – Bryon starts clawing desperately at Raffe's hands – "set me down on the ground before you piss it off any more. Don't let me hurt anyone."_

_"You can't hurt anyone ever again if you're dead." Raffe's voice is neutral, indifferent to the struggles of the filth before him. "Don't try to barter with me, monster."_

_"I'm not a monster." With pleading eyes, Bryon tries to grasp at Raffe's hands. "I'm not. Let me try to prove that to you. I'm not a monster. I'm not!"_

_Raffe laughs with bone-chilling cruelty. "You are, little demon. You are. You see, there's nothing you can do about the bare essentials. I will always be the Wrath of God. And you will always be the monster I hunt."_

_"It doesn't have to be that way." Bryon's eyes soften with pity, despite the fact that he's the one hanging over the cliff. "Raphael, you can change, just like I did."_

_"There's only one problem with your cute little theory." Raffe's eyes harden, his hand growing tauter with pre-release stress. The hand bracing Pooky Bear coils into a better striking position. "You have not changed in the slightest. No matter how much you may try to run from that truth, you can't. And now, you're at the end of the line. So, may my last words to you be this." Raffe's voice drops to a whisper, and, with one simple motion, he stabs Bryon through the chest. "You always will be a monster."_

_Flicking the gurgling Bryon away from him like a man may toss garbage into the can, Raffe turns his back. Bryon makes no noise as he plummets, something that truly frightens me – I know Bryon, I know he survived. I am utterly sure that, whatever Bryon was trying to keep deep in his gut, isn't going to be happy about being thrown into a cliff. _

_Raffe shows no regard to anything until, abruptly, the bush Bryon had so desperately been crawling towards randomly bursts into flame. _

_His blue eyes reflect the blaze of the sudden inferno. With a sensation like a slap to the face, the presence I had felt earlier, in an earlier dream, slams into me again, this time with the anger of a million lives. Its scalding heat reaches from one reality and into mine. Raffe scrambles backwards, away from the flame, casting out one hand to bode it off. _

_The burning bush. _

_From the depths of the pit, a roar echoes off the stone, filled with rage. From my vantage point, I can see the cloak as it flutters down the gorge, returning to a fallen master. _

_Raffe goes white. The presence seems to terrify him – the sight of him so rattled is alarming especially to me. It prompts the question of just how powerful the flames and the presence are. Hastily shoving Pooky Bear into a scabbard, Raffe takes to the air, flapping off in brisk sweeps of his beautiful wings. The black and billowing smoke of the burning bush stains a few white feathers grey, and the tongues of the flame leap after him, rearing on their hind legs and snapping their jaws at his heels. _

_Raffe sighs as soon as he is in the air, leaving a snow-capped mountain behind him. I, myself, release some of the strain on my heart as the flame's red glare disappears in the blankets of white, left behind to burn emptily at the stone chamber. Wistful appreciation fills my heart as I watch Raffe relax the beats of his wings, as I watch him begin to gracefully swoop and dive through the air. The little mountain city at the base of the hills screams as he passes overhead, but even that is reassuring, a sign that he is leaving Bryon's "dark side" behind. _

_Perhaps, though, he isn't. _

_A belligerent roar echoes over the valley and the sole wintry mountain among all the green hills. The top of the mountain collapses and crumbles, drawing more screams from below. Raffe pivots in the air to stare with horrified awe in his eyes as a bronze dragon explodes from the mountaintop, sending avalanches down and boulders toppling. The mountaintop shatters as the dragon pulls his body through the debris, the fragile structure that'd been riddled with cracks and nearly pounded to dust breaking into rubble at the dragon's prompting, crushed beneath his mighty weight. He gleams like a copper penny among the whiteness, his roar so tremendous it instills fear in I, the invincible overseer. Tail wrapping around the mountain like the dressing to a wound, Bryon's searchlight eyes land on Raffe, the faint wink of bronze visible from such a distance._

_The exquisite beauty is that of a predator as the dragon climbs from the depths of the mountain, each muscle terribly beautiful. The hunter's instinct flares its nose, pricks the hairlike scales along the nape of its neck. Superiority seems to have built the creature and all its grandeur glamour as it roars a challenge at Raffe, the triumphant bellow echoing off every hill of the valley, heard for thousands of miles around. _

_In this moment, I realize that the tides have changed. _

_Raffe is hunted. _

_Bryon is the hunter. _

_And I realize in the moment after that Bryon is every bit as merciless as Raffe._

* * *

Scruffy's huffing nose grazing over my forehead, over my sealed eyelids, and down my temple to my cheek stirs me from my deep sleep – his tongue caressing my nose and sculpting into the concaves of my face. Flicking my eyes open, I start to stir – only paused by Hugo's desperate face as he slams one finger to his lips repeatedly, expression intense.

Scruffy retreats from me, padding silently back into the shadows. Hugo is crouched on the opposite side of Raffe, exigently urging me silently to keep still and quiet. In one hand, he clutches a can of shaving cream. My mouth opens upon realization of what the boy's probably trying to do.

Raffe is still slumbering without an inkling of grace – you'd have thought that an angel would be remarkably poised and balanced in sleep, but the case is not so with Raffe. Somehow, Hugo's scuffling around does not wake him either.

Crawling like a cat, Hugo scurries around until he's behind me. Raffe's arms are wrapped me, cradling my body to his as if I'm his blanket against the cold tunnels. His hands, however, are slack behind my back. The hiss of the can rasps behind my back, and I can almost feel one of those hands filling with shaving cream.

Moving back into my field of vision, Hugo smirks, hushing me once more, gesturing me to be perfectly still. Then, patting Scruffy on the shoulder, I watch as his oh-so-original prank take wing.

Scruffy starts sniffing at Raffe's face, not licking him, merely allowing the tips of those irritating whiskers skating over his cheeks and up his nose. Sure enough, Raffe starts to stir, groaning from the pit of his throat. A candid mixture of dread and apprehension chokes up my throat as Raffe's arm stirs, lifting from its placement wrapping around my torso.

It lifts to his face. The moment is tense.

Groaning, Raffe shoves Scruffy's nose away from his face, slamming the shaving cream unknowingly onto the wolf's snout.

Scruffy starts to sneeze and cough, snorting cream from his nose. With a soft noise of sleepy confusion and a furrowed brow, Raffe blinks the sleep from his eyes and stares at his hand. Bryon's reverberating laughter booms in the darkness after the moment of awed silence. It seems to rock the chamber. Paige seems slightly confused as to what's going on; she smiles and glances around with hopeful eyes, but she didn't seem to fully comprehend what'd happened in the first place. Ogden hoots like a retarded owl, clapping with childish glee.

I join in the laughter fest with an undignified snicker as Raffe flicks his hand to shake off the clumps of cream sticking to his flesh and a speck of it lands on his eyelashes, and another lands on my forehead.

"Well, that went horribly wrong," Hugo howls, "but it was funny. Definitely uploading that to YouTube. Bryon, can I have the camera?"

Bryon tosses it in an underhanded pass, one Hugo catches flawlessly. Chuckling devilishly, he views the film, blasting the volume at my awakening purr and laughing along as Scruffy starts to sneeze. At the replay, Scruffy snorts indignantly, bristling proudly despite the raspy huffs the audio makes.

While it plays, I push away from Raffe, rising from his embrace. Rubbing the shaving cream from my forehead and flicking it somewhere into the distance, I stand shakily, walking stiff-leggedly over to Bryon.

"You knew about that?" I question, studying his face.

Bryon shrugs apologetically, rubbing massaging circles onto Paige's back. "My apologies, but yes, yes I did. You can't just put a cap on Hugo, though. You've got to let him get his energy out in innocent ways if at all possible."

"Innocent?" I chuckle as Raffe rises from the nest, blinking with his white-fringed eyelashes obliviously. "If somebody doesn't get that, he'll be walking around for the rest of the day with shaving cream on his lashes."

Raffe's face wrinkles with confusion. Cracking his neck, he strides over, flexing his wings to return feeling to them. "What are you two cooking up?" Glancing questionably at me then at Bryon, he curls his lip. "More diabolical shaving cream plans? Because I'll foil them every time."

With an odd sense of merriment lifting my attitude, I laugh, striding right up to him. Standing on my toes to reach his face, I rectify, "No, actually, we'd never be that obvious – I'm just scheming about how I'll get that shaving cream off your face." As my fingers reach up to remove the foam, Raffe blinks rapidly and flinches away. "Oh, please, Raffe, hold still; you look ridiculous. Let me fix it."

Obediently, Raffe stills, hardening into a pastiche sculpture of a Greek god in a modern man's garb and the wings of a Christian monster. Plucking at the ends of his lashes as tenderly as possible, the pads of my fingers barely brushing the slender hairs, I pull the clot to the fringes of the eyelashes and then flick it away. It flies into the darkness somewhere, perhaps landing near my own shaving cream clump.

"That, my friends, is a sighting of a moiety." Bryon nudges at Hugo with his elbow, smiling at me. "Take a good long look, they're pretty darn rare."

Hugo's annoyance dictates his previous glee. "How many times do we have to go over the fact that I am not a walking, talking dictionary? What the hell is a mo – uh, a mo-mo?"

"Moiety?" Bryon sighs in enervation. "You know, for Christmas, you're getting a good old-fashioned dictionary, that way, you _can_ walk and talk like one."

"For Christmas," Hugo counters with a cocked brow, "you're getting a Tumblr whether you like it or not. Let's see how long your sanity lasts with hastag-feels."

* * *

**Basically, the entire chapter was muddling. More background, more dark-side secrets, and a burning bush. **

**POLL: The foundations of Raffe's and Bryon's initial hate for one another are founded in this chapter. Thoughts?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Chapter Sixteen**

Abruptly in the overall silence of the darkened tunnel, Hugo howls with joy. He'd been able to pick up the barest trace of Wi-Fi as we near the surface, and since the moment he'd received the signal, he'd been gleefully surfing the web, squealing occasionally when he spots a particular fan-art or fanfiction that pleases him.

Prompted more by boredom than interest, I drift up to Hugo, walking alongside Scruffy's long strides. The wolf greets me with a playful lap up the side of my face, panting cheerfully at my arrival. Meeting Scruffy's mischievous grin with a smile of my own, I stroke his shoulder.

"Penryn," Hugo gushes, noticing that I'd wandered his direction, "you've got to look at this one. I mean, like, seriously, this one, it's worth it. Even better than the Scruffy and Jane fanimation, I swear."

Sighing somberly, I glance at the screen of his computer. "Alright. Lemme see. Scoot over." Awkwardly, I swing up onto Scruffy's back – the wolf does not falter with my additional weight, but he slows to allow me better passage. Hugo allows me to squirm between him and the computer, safely wedged between his legs should I lose my balance.

His lean arms wrap around me to tap away at the computer touchpad, but the arrangement isn't awkward. I might as well be hanging around one of my guy friends with the air of nonchalance, indifference from even Raffe and Bryon as they plod on opposite sides of Scruffy. Bryon doesn't even seem to register the contact, talking softly to Paige and laughing at whatever she may say. Raffe glances once at Hugo, rolls his eyes at Scruffy's lolling tongue, and continues studying the darkness for something threatening.

"Okay, so, here's the original, right?" Hugo murmurs, excitement molding his attitude. On the screen, a long Tumblr post is seen of little chibi-like doodles is displayed. Patiently, Hugo scrolls through, allowing me to see each of the round, large-eyed people.

In the first box, it's just someone I assume is Bryon standing next to a Seraph with six wings. The Seraph's mouth is open, his cute doodled eyes angry. Revolving around him are the words, "freak", "unloved", "get out of here". In the next frame, Bryon's smile is decreased to a flat line. Next to him is Raffe, except the angel's face is cruel – well, as cruel as a little doodle baby can be. This time, Raffe's saying "monster", "demon", and "go back to hell."

Now, Bryon's officially frowning and looking down at the ground by the time he reaches the next foe, a demon that looks suspiciously like Lucius. Now, it's saying, "you'll never belong", "outcast", "street rat". By the last box, he looks officially depressed, hugging his cloak and staring at his feet with eyes glazed with glassy tears. My heart pulls at the little innocent face. The words around the disappointed female human read, "not a warrior", "stupid cloaks", "no more cloaks", and "take it off".

The next frame is flat out miserable, with dark tinting and no text, just Bryon sitting in the corner of an empty room with tears running down his face, crying into his arms, pink mouth wailing.

However, things look considerably brighter in the picture, thank the heavens. Adorable sobbing chibi Bryon was a little much for me. This shows a little she-angel with white hair tinted pink and reddish brown wings in the doorway of Bryon's crying room, her mouth splayed in admiration and eyes dotted with awed sparkles. She's saying: "your cloak is so beautiful oh em gee".

Sniffling, tears still pooling in his wide eyes, Bryon looks up at her in the next picture. "you like my cloak?"

With a warming heart, I see the she-angel and Bryon standing side by side, and her goofy overcome-with-happiness expression. This time, the she angel's saying, "I wuf it! I wuf your cloak!"

The next frame has Bryon throwing the cloak over the she-angel's shoulders and her painfully cute excited expression. "here," Bryon is saying, "you can wear my cloak". The silly she-angel's reaction actually forces a laugh out of me. It depicts her running around with crazed jubilance, hands raised to the sky, wings spread wide and eyes almost as large as her black hole of a mouth. The cloak flies behind her as she's caught mid-stride. Large text overwhelms the background. "OMG I WUF THIS CLOAK. OMG CLOAK CLOAK CLOAK CLOAK CLOAK. OMG BRYON LOOK AT YOUR CLOAK. I WUF IT. I WUF YOUR CLOAK."

Bryon's close-up shows him to have a thoughtful face, watching her prance in the background, still with a cloud of capitalized text trailing her. "would you like my staff, too?"

The close-up of the she-angel is perhaps the most adorable yet – she's peeking beneath the cloak as if it's a hood, her eyes round as pools and glassy with stars. Hope spreads her mouth across her face, and her hands clap at her cheeks. "you would do dat? fo' me?"

"here." The following bow is of Bryon handing her the staff. "you can have my staff." Succeeding that frame is only picture of the she-angel in paradise, her having fallen to her knees and lifting the staff above her head, cloak flapping majestically around her.

Bryon's cocking his head next, his eyes warm and his smile radiant. "I think I like you."

The next two frames are quite possibly the sweetest things in the bunch. First, it's the she-angel ramming into Bryon with a hug, causing him an _oof_ of surprise. Then, it's a close-up of her face – a realistic picture, this time, of a realistic angel I recognize with ease. "I love you, Bryon. I love you so much."

The last pair of boxes confuses me, but I feel that it's something that Hugo will explain. Following the hugging picture is a close up of callused hands slipping a golden band onto the slender ring finger of a woman with pale skin. Hovering over the realistic drawing are the words, "I love you, too."

Three dots follow this, and the final image is utterly heartbreaking for reasons I cannot even begin to comprehend. Realistic Bryon is kneeling, staring at his own hands with rivers of tears running down his face again, cloak around his shoulders, staff resting on the ground before him. All of the negative words hover around him in faint print, some standing out more than others. The only color in the picture is the little red feather cradled between his two hands, clutched tenderly, like a frail talisman to keep away the darkness.

"Wait, what happened?" I question, brow scrunching, glancing up at Hugo. "Who's that angel chick?"

"Uh." Hugo glances hintingly at Bryon, whose head had snapped up at the mention of the "angel chick", and then at Raffe, whose ears are undoubtedly leaning in our direction. "Long story for a different time. But, now we've got to see the other version that was just released while we were navigating this fucking labyrinth! It's trending on everything, and it's, quite frankly, just as adorable.

His hands quiver with excitement as he clicks to the next tab.

The exact same style greets me, most likely by the exact same artist. Except, this time, Bryon's the one spitting negative words ("nothing but hate", "devil", "stay away from my family"), issuing them to a strangely heart-melting version of Raffe. My mouth drops as Hugo scrolls excitedly down to the next slide. It looks suspiciously like the pissed Gabriel archangel, with the words "foot-soldier", "stupid", and "mindless warrior" floating around. Glancing between the two frames, it's difficult to see a difference in Raffe – but upon closer examination, his mouth softens to a miniscule degree, and his wings droop a smidgen lower.

Sequentially is an angel that perhaps is Beliel with broad, feathered wings – "fake", he accuses, "murderer", "always second best". Now, Raffe's lip is peeled back over his teeth; he seems to have curled in on himself more slightly, moving into a defensive position, a hand on the hilt of Pooky Bear.

The last frame of accusations is Uriel. His angry sneer is one I am far too-well acquainted with. "not a thinker", Uriel is hissing. "stupid wings", "no more wings", "take them off".

I know what's happening in the picture after that. I'd been there. It's a drawing of heartbroken Chibi Raffe curled up in a ball on the couch he'd been healing on when we first met, staring incomprehensibly at his severed wings with glassy, tear-filled eyes. The forlorn loneliness of the picture brings even more gut-wrenching emotions than Bryon's despair had. With a glance at this picture, I can almost see how much Raffe's world had changed.

The next box quickly vanquishes all mushy feelings.

I appear in that particular box, with a crookedly friendly expression and a braid over my shoulder. The words, "oh em gee your wings are so magnificent" appear beneath my smiling face.

"No way," I mutter in absolute disbelief.

"Aren't you cute?" cackles Hugo, scrolling down more.

Swallowing down disbelief, I struggle to focus on the next frame – Raffe is suspicious, but also curious. "you like my wings?"

My response is somewhat differing from the she-angel's response had been. First, there is me with joy and happiness, grinning and saying, "I wuf your wings!" But then, there's a jagged _crash_ text box cutting the frame in half. The Penryn beneath the crash is suspicious, glancing over her shoulder with sneaky ninja eyes. "They also wuf your wings."

"here," Raffe is shouting as the men pour into the couch room, "you can wear my wings". His angry expression is more cute than fierce, like a little kitten mewing up a challenge. The drawing is so similar to what'd actually occurred that they'd even included that damn shopping cart.

However, my disturbed fascination is quickly sliced in half by my annoyance of the next stupid picture. Chibi-me has the furious eyes and pointy-shark teeth as she rampages over the screen with Raffe's wings held on her back. "GRRRR LOOK AT ME IMMA RAFFE! LOOK AT ME RAFFE! I'M YOU! HEY MICHAEL WATCHA DOIN? GRRRR IMMA RAFFE! GRRRRRRR! GRRRRRR! FEAR ME! GRRRRR!"

In irritation, I jab a finger at the screen. "That is _not_ how it happened."

Hugo laughs mellifluously. "Well, according to the guys you attacked, it is. I spoke to them. We had a nice little chat when I was still tracking down who you were. Don't look at me like that – Obi reported you and the brawny stranger to one of my many ears, and I tracked you down. Raffe is dangerous" – he throws something at Raffe, I'm not sure what, exactly, but it bounces off his head with a sound crack – "and we needed to make sure he hadn't gone dark side. Luckily, though, you're just a Young."

"Just a Young?" Bryon chuckles as Raffe grumbles, "Was it necessary to pelt me with a rock?"

"Oh, screw you two, we're looking at adorable fan-art." Grumbling temperamentally, Hugo scrolls down to the next picture. After an apologetic glance in Raffe's direction, I refocus on the next box.

This time, it's Raffe and I, walking down the highway like we'd done originally. He's glancing at me thoughtfully, with military judgment keen in his eyes. "would you like my sword, too?"

The reflection of Pooky Bear gleams in my large eyes as I stare at the sword. My expression is slightly more devious than the she-angels had been – and I know that it's geared more towards me. I didn't want Raffe's sword to prance around like the she-angel did with Bryon's staff. I wanted it to get my sister back. "you would do dat? fo' me?"

"here. you can have my sword." Now, Raffe and I are walking away from Obi's camp, little Chibi figures all waving their guns in the background, twins prominent among the crowd. My picture is glorious, centered on me lifting his sword to the sky and my majestic roaring expression. In the background, the words, "POOKY BEAR" are stenciled.

As Hugo still scrolls down, my stomach clenches, recalling what had followed the retrieval of the weapon. The tension eases upon seeing the next picture – it's just a close-up of Raffe's layered blue peepers looking in the rear-view mirror at me after I'd gotten into my skimpy crimson dress. The makeup on my face makes me look completely different than all the other doodle drawings – sophisticated, pretty, but almost not like me. The only words are, "you're an okay monkey."

Next is just a blank of me standing in front of the angels at the front gates, spinning around, and Raffe peeking through the window of the van with a hilarious expression.

Hugo squeals with joy as we arrive at the next frame – realistic, capturing Raffe's every contour and line with swipes of the pencil. It's the moment when our foreheads were touching, moments before I kissed him. His eyes are shut, his lips quivering with pain, the hand at my neck furling with agony. My gaze is fixed on him, sympathetic, but with a deeper undertone – as if I feel his pain as my own.

Which hadn't been what happened.

Hadn't it?

The words beneath it only add more muddled emotions to the confusion. "you are the best angel I've met, the best angel by far."

Regardless of my stillness, Hugo scrolls onward, warbling like a sparrow. The next skillfully sketched picture is of Raffe and I fighting Beliel that dreadful night in the angelic Frankenstien lab, utterly familiar, and yet so bizarre, to see lit up on a computer screen. "and you are the best human."

Following the triple dot is Raffe crouched on the ground, just as Bryon had been, staring at his hands, with demonic wings extended to the sky to keep from hooking himself on anything. Swordless, wingless, valueless. The utter devastation, the hopelessness, in his broken gaze might as well rip my heart from my chest. The flare of the aerie exploding still burns behind him, giving me incentive to know exactly when it'd happened.

"Isn't that beautiful?" Hugo blabs, clapping his hands like a frazzled seal. "Just so meaningful! Ah, I love it!"

I remain silent, eyes glued to Raffe's anguish.

"She doesn't care about your silly Tumblr things, Hugo," Bryon scolds playfully, coming out of nowhere to cuff the boy. "Stop bothering Penryn!"

"It's not that," I murmur, eyes narrowing. I scroll up to the scenes with me flapping my wings and making a fuss. "It's more along the lines of alarm. See, I can understand how you, master of secrets, can get ahold of information like this" – I elbow Hugo in the ribs – "but I don't understand how some internet artist can. Mind explaining?"

"Easy peasy, actually." Hugo waves a hand dismissively. "I told her. I had the secrets, and I sold them to her. It's part of my business, remember?"

My alarm bells ring on a whole new octave. "So, you've basically been stalking Raffe and I. You've got a bunch of information that can thrust us into absolute chaos, and you've been _selling it off_?"

Hugo sighs, drawing out the exhale. "That's where things get complicated. There definitely would be a profit if Raffe were travelling alone. He's got more bounties on his head than – heck, I don't even know how many he's accumulated. There are so many angel hunters probing me for his locations, weaknesses, expectations at the moment. However, his decision to travel with you, Miss Young" – Hugo places emphasis on my last name, leaving me a better glimpse at his motives – "seems to have inadvertently saved his ass. No one wants to anger the crowd you've got building behind you. So they all fuck off when I tell them to."

Bryon groans in exasperation. "Can we please cut back on the swearing? Like, seriously? You do nothing but curse."

"Does it fucking look like I'm gonna stop using these goddamned swear words, you bastard?" Hugo spits.

Bryon rolls his eyes, scooping Paige into his arms, allowing her to perch on his shoulders. "You're going to hell."

Hugo grins devilishly. "Bay's in hell, so it's good enough for me."

Muttering something beneath his breath, Bryon looks away with an annoyed roll of his eyes. "I'm sorry," Hugo prompts, blinking innocently, "what was that?"

"Uh, when is there the next full moon?" Bryon questions, his change of subjects sloppy and obvious.

"Smooth," Hugo smirks, shaking his head. "Like, seriously, Bryon, that's an all-time low for you, and not everyone inherits that 'charisma'. But, actually, now that we've just, _ahem_, switched topics, I would be happy to inform you that the full moon will indeed by dawning approximately when we exit this hellhole."

"Brilliant." Bryon grins with all his teeth, childish ebullience sparking to life in his expression. "I do love full moons. They're my favorite nights in the world."

"Full moons?" My brow creases, and I find myself eyeing Bryon quizzically. "Why? What's up with the full moon?"

"Full moons!" Hugo gasp, amazement raising his voiced to a jubilant trill. "Oh, Penryn, you innocent little thing! The full moon is a symbol of rebirth, of beauty, of when the blind eye in the sky sees the most. That's the night the Nephilim wander about and dance, because the angels don't risk flying under a full moon – too much light, they're too easily spotted. Man, I wish we had been able to make it to Sercem Domu in time for the full moon – you see, once a month, the Nephilim hold this massive celebration. There's giant dancing circles and lines, karaoke singing, fancy clothing, love and beauty in the air – children will be making flower leis and decorating the town, and there will be contest of the most beautiful necklace and such. There's laughter and merriment in the air. No alcohol, though – it's a holy day as well, and even the slightest suggestion of the sins that alcohol can provide is strictly forbidden."

"Hmm," agrees Bryon. His eyes are distant, carried to the Nephilim town of which Hugo speaks. "I bet you Miguel will lead a herd of spirited men through the town on a cheerful rampage, and Mariabell a herd of males in her wake. And do you suppose they have put up all the flags? The ones stringing from house to house between balconies? Sariel and Penemue always bicker over who can fly through those obstacles the fastest. I remember once, when I was just a little boy, they raced, and Penemue won by a landslide. Sariel was so angry with himself he paced around the rest of the night. Now, everyone with wings does things like that – I can bet you that Miguel won't finish first."

"That's right!" Hugo gasps, smacking his forehead. "Oh, man, I completely forgot about those. Some cities have them for wolves, too. Scruffy's won so many times I feel guilty entering him in anything. Rumbbaa's also taken away quite a few medals from that thing. Daine's pretty proud of that. Don't forget the Dragon Ceremony, either!" Hugo flicks his hand in Bryon's direction, and a stone bounces off his skull. "All the children line up at midnight, right before they're ushered off to sleep, and sit anxiously around the bush in the center of the tree." He nudges me in the ribs. "Paige would've done it if we'd been in the town, to help purify her soul or whatnot. Each of the children would have a candle. At the exact same moment, the second that the moon hits the exact center of the sky, they blow the candles out. And, legend has it, the flames go to the bush, and that ol' bush burns. Like, seriously, after a second or two, the bush bursts into flame. I dunno, I still think it's mumbo jumbo, but I haven't dug anything up yet."

"The bush burns?" I frown skeptically. "How does it survive until the next full moon?"

"That's the thing." Bryon's eyes sparkle with mischief. "Despite what this pessimist will have you believing, it's not normal flame. Remember the burning bush that God used to speak to Moses?"

"Moses?" I question, surprised by the biblical history.

"Moses, yeah. I didn't like him, he stole my staff and wouldn't give it back 'til he made rivers into blood and nasty stuff like that. But the burning bush is the same. It's the foundation of my faith, and the faith of all the Nephilim."

"They're all religious sticklers," Hugo whispers in my ear, the rasping words loud enough for anyone to hear.

"Maybe." Bryon's ancient smile holds knowledge and amusement. "But have you noticed that the Nephilim are the happiest people around? Even on the edge of the apocalypse, they're taking in refugees, nursing the injured angel back to health, and restoring the humans their courage with festivals and songs to lift their spirits. I would sincerely enjoy seeing a society based on something other than faith in some sort of god becoming as regal as the Nephilim have."

Raffe's voice is alien in the conversation, as if we'd gone bereft his input so long it spooked us all. "On that topic, why, exactly, are these Nephilim still partying around at the end of the world as they know it? Shouldn't they be preoccupied with slightly more important things?"

Bryon's melodic laughter is even more humored than before. "Even if I were to go into the most depth I possibly could, Raphael, you would still not understand. It is in their nature to help, to protect. What else should they be doing? Raising arms? Getting themselves massacred like pigs in a slaughterhouse? You know better than many that such would be a poor choice of action. Instead, they're changing thousands of lives by raising morale and constructing families again. The angels don't notice, of course, but everyone is helping out the humans. If the humans are the ones to take up arms, they'll have more than monkey armies at their back."

"You're right," Raffe harrumphs. "I don't get it. If there are still Nephilim in bulk – which there seem to be, you two talk very decidedly about things – it is highly illogical to have such revelations that easily draw attention to themselves. And another thing I don't understand." He draws closer to the torchlight, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Hugo made it seem liked you had it planned that I was to go to this cozy Nephilim town. Don't tell me you think that's a good idea, if you truly care for your little monsters."

"As a matter of fact, there are Nephilim in bulk." Bryon's jaw clenches – the word _monster_ obviously doesn't have such a good effect on his attitude. "And the reason they revel is because they're not afraid of the angels. No one is. We hate you, and we don't want to trifle with you, but it's not out of fear. A war would be inconvenient. I suppose you've been out of the loop for a while, Raphael, but I might as well update you, for your own good." His head cocks, bronze eyes weighed down with cynical disdain. "The Manhattan and London aeries have fallen in the past two weeks. Before that, there was the Orlando aerie, and before that, Dallas. And you know what, arch?" Bryon leans closer to Bryon. "The only one your high-and-mighty archangels know about is Dallas. The inconvenient war has already started."

"How nice," Raffe drawls. His tightening fist and quick, unsettled glance to the right are only visible to me. "But that still doesn't explain why the Nephilim are welcoming me, the harbinger of their destruction, into their towns."

Bryon laughs without much color. "They don't fear you, either, Raphael. We know your motives. You don't want to die, you want to regain control of the angels and get the hell out of here, it's extremely predictable. They would be able to shoot you down before you got a mile from their base if you tried to run. If you try to exterminate them, Ariel will call the cherubs again, and slaughter you solely. If you tried anything sneaky or hidden once restored, you would be murdered by the spies in the angelic ranks if you hadn't already been assassinated on your trip to get back. Because, although a shadow of the terror you inspired lives on, you've done what every great civilization has done: you haven't improved as the centuries passed. As the world adapts and shifts around you, you remain immortal and attached to the old ways. We've changed, learned how to counter every attack in your book. A sole angel is not a threat to anyone."

"He's not a sole angel." I meet my uncle's gaze hostilely. "I'm by his side, and the Nephilim should probably worry about a haywire Young on the loose."

The moment the rebuttal escapes my lips, Bryon's face softens. It loses the hardened general look about it, melting back into the friendly big-brother grin. Admiration gleams for a few seconds short as he stares at me with approval, clapping me on invisibly at my ability to defuse him.

With a sigh, Bryon meets Raffe's eyes. "It seems that Penryn must tell me to do so before I can correct my attitude. Apologies, I know how this is, I've gone through it myself. Perhaps we should forget about the past and focus on the future…?"

"I don't know what you did in the past," reminds Raffe through gritted teeth.

"I was referring to –" He clears his throat and glances at the ground. "Never mind, not worth a bicker. Hopefully, we can resolve things between the two of us, in good time."

Raffe grunts, glancing sideways at Bryon thoughtfully. "I don't make friends easily." A lengthy pause follows that statement, but Bryon still seems to await more. Raffe provides. "I don't make friends easily, but those I do make, I make carefully. If it means anything, I hope you and I get along in the long run."

Brotherly affection beams in Bryon's approving grin. But, before anyone can utter a sound, Hugo starts to chatter.

"I got that entire conversation written down. Officially posted. It is going to get more reblogs than I could ever imagine! Oh, man, look at all these notes!"

Bryon sighs heavily, pace returning to a happy lollygagging gait. He hums a gentle tune beneath his breath, pacing his walking along to his music. Although at first I'm baffled by the gentle, cheery rhythm, it hits me like a slap up the face, and I cannot help but sing along to the next line or two.

"And on the corner is a banker with a motorcar," I sing, enlivened by the familiar Beatles melody. "The little children laugh at him behind his back!"

The tune echoes off the rock walls and bounces over the sheer cliffs, driving home just how large the giant caverns are. With my sole voice, it seems lonely, empty.

Bryon smiles, his beatific grin giving way to the next line. His voice banishes the sense of solitude, the two echoes vaulting off the stones in unison. We harmonize with the words: "And the banker never wears a mac in the pouring rain, very strange!"

Hugo joins us with the chorus, and Ogden hums along. Even Paige sways to the beat from Bryon's shoulder, patting his head with the rhythm. "Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes! There beneath the blue suburban skies, I sit and meanwhile back…"

"What are you all doing?" questions Raffe in utter bewilderment as we launch cheerfully into the next stanza. Every word seems to remedy a bit of my insecurity, a bit of my hopelessness, and a bit of my worries – instead, the lyrics carry me to my own home town and every little weird person I'd ogle at. Better days, better times.

"In Penny Lane, there is a fireman with an hourglass, and in his pocket is a portrait of the queen! He likes to keep his fire engine clean, it's a clean machine."

I recall the long musical of nothing but a whiny trumpet, and fall silent. Both Hugo and Bryon hum out the music, miming instruments in the air. Paige still taps out her beat on Bryon's head, and Ogden practically sings along with thunderous humming. Raffe pads along, keeping his distance, still puzzled by our ridiculous habits.

I join the chorus a beat late, despite Bryon's warning glance in my direction. Still, we join in song, same as ever. "Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes! Four of fish and finger pies in summer, meanwhile back!"

"What does that even mean?" Raffe huffs, his confusion becoming irritation.

Before I can do more than glance in amusement in his direction, the next stanza is upon us. "Behind the shelter in the middle of a roundabout, a pretty nurse is selling poppies from a tray! And though she feels as if she's in a play, she is anyway.

"In Penny Lane, the barber shaves another customer. We see the banker sitting waiting for a trim, then the fireman rushes in from the pouring rain, very strange!"

Hugo slides off Scruffy approximately halfway through the chorus to start waltzing with Bryon down the road – the two men take to the carefree dancing with giddy alacrity. I splutter with laughter halfway through the stanza at the sight of their flawless choral expressions and the way Paige grips Bryon's neck tighter every time he dips Hugo. Somehow, I manage to pull myself together for the last go-round of the chorus.

"Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes!" we warble together, any trace of previous harmony lost. "There beneath the blue suburban skies! Penny Lane!"

As we crumble into laughter, each of us choking on it, from little Paige to Ogden the Ox, I can't help but glance around the little group. We'd just been in the midst of a terrible argument between perhaps two of the most powerful men in the world, and now, here we are, reeling from our own awful singing in a silly, redundant Beatles tune. The concept only warms my heart, only lightens my laughter.

"What –" Raffe sighs curtly. "I'm having each and every one of you locked away in an insane asylum when we get to any sort of civilization, anywhere."

* * *

Bryon lifts his hands to the sky and laughs thunderously, twirling around once in the barren clearing. The brown cloak chases after his legs like an obedient mutt. He breathes in deeply for a third time, closing his eyes, his expression blissful.

"You enjoying yourself there?" I tease, wading through the ankle-high grasses and weeds painted navy by the starlight.

Bryon's eyes peel open, the bronze there startlingly bright – the moonlight seems to have brought their brilliance to a different level of luminance, bringing them now their own gleam and glow, the bronze sheen against the royal purple of the rolling hills behind him a shocking contrast. Laughing heartily, Bryon surges forward, his arms of steel closing around me in a tight, brief embrace. I laugh awkwardly as he sets me down, still beaming.

"Ah, Penryn, can't you just feel it!" He inhales for the fourth time, as if he can pick up a fragrance not tangible to my nose. "In the air! The cold, crisp night! Each of the little stars watching us with beady silver eyes, the seas of blue grass swaying in the midnight breeze like a lion's mane whipped up by the breeze, the freedom howling in the distance! Can't you just feel it, Penryn? In the air, in the wind! This is where I belong!"

His lunatic behavior is amusing enough for me to chortle. "Yeah, it feels pretty nice, Bryon. But it's just a full moon, and, unless there's werewolves galloping about, that's all it is."

"Werewolves?" Bryon snorts, halting his crackhead twirling. "Please, Penryn, don't be ridiculous." He pauses thoughtfully. "Werewolves come out on the new moon."

"You're kidding, right?"

Bryon laughs maniacally, but doesn't answer. Instead, he lifts his head to the sky and admires the constellations.

"How I've missed the stars." Bryon sighs, wistful passion gleaming in his illuminant bronze eyes. "That's one thing I did hate about humankind – you seemed to not take pleasure in simple things like that, smogging up the atmosphere and shining your lights so bright that you can't possibly appreciate them."

"Yeah," I agree, glancing up at the gorgeous painting, "it kinda sucked to live in the city." Admiration swells in my heart as I study the artwork above – it looks as if someone had taken pale blue and lilac paint to a black canvas and splattered it all over, not leaving a speck of darkness unmarred. The euphoric dance of stars and ethereal smudges of diaphanous gold all seem at home in their place in above me, forming a sphere around us.

"One time," I recall, intrigued by the shrewd beauty of the stars, "my dad took me camping, deep out into the woods, the middle of nowhere. He told me creepy camp stories and we stargazed for a bit. One of my best memories with him."

"Nighttime is the best time for bonding, of any sort," Bryon agrees. "I wish to see if Raffe and I can perhaps heal the wounds that had been dealt with that earlier argument."

"I dunno," I judge skeptically, "he's not really a forgive-and-forget kinda –"

"Excuse you," Raffe interrupts with a pouty sour glance my direction. He steps up between Bryon and I, arms crossed. He, too, seems pleased with the cool night breeze, airing out his bat wings. "Talking behind someone's back? That's not nice. That's not nice at all."

"Sorry." I shrug unapologetically. "It's true."

"Sorta is." Hugo stumbles up with the grace of an ostrich, tripping over Scruffy's feet. The wolf seems delighted, tail wagging, his bandages barely holding him back from leaping upon everyone. From Scruffy's back, Paige grins, kicking his ribs like he's a little pony for her to goad into action. She laughs with terse exclamation, practically strangling like the poor wolf, snuggling against his luxuriously soft pelt, perhaps to ease the itch of the stitching. Wincing at my sister's behavior, Hugo steps forward with his palms raised towards her. "Be gentle, darling. He's soft and breakable. Like my arms. Pigeon-Bat, please don't break my arms."

Bryon clears his throat loudly, drawing attention to himself. Closing both hands over his staff and leaning against the length of solid wood, he decrees, "We need another icebreaker, don't we?"

Ogden struts over, placing one hand on Scruffy's flank and waving the other in the air wildly. He grins and gestures towards the ground and Bryon's staff, then to the starry mosaic above.

"Oooo!" Hugo's eyes sparkle in the moonlight, opalescent shades of copper and ginger overlapping. "Yes! Do the thing, Bryon!"

Bryon's eyebrows rise, one corner of his lips jerking back in the fragment of smile. "The thing?"

"Yeah!" Gleefully, Hugo quickly jogs off the field, as if placing us in quarantine. "You know, the moon thing! With the flowers? Penryn, Pigeon-Bat, find your own space, you'll want it! You too, Scruffy! Take Paige somewhere special!"

In this world that I've been dragged into, I'm prepared for nearly anything to happen, so I follow the advice of the merchant, striding from Raffe's side to a place parallel to Bryon. After brief hesitation, Raffe follows my lead.

"I haven't even told you if I'm going to do the thing," Bryon chuckles, readjusting his grip on the staff with callused hands. Steady breaths fill his lungs. "Before you ask, yes, I'm doing the thing."

Hugo does nothing more than issue Bryon a thumbs up, and slam his finger to his lips immediately afterwards. Taking his cue, I fall silent, watching Bryon intensely.

As Bryon bows over his staff, clutching it with two hands, measuring each inhale and timing each exhale, a zephyr whispers in my ears. The intelligible voice of the breeze seems to speak of ancient sorcery and ageless runes, of a time past and a time still to come. I breathe in the redolent air, tasting midnight's bittersweet perfume on my tongue.

Bryon lifts the bottom tip of his staff from the earth, inhaling sharply.

He slams it back against the ground with immediate effects.

From the place where the wood had hit the grass, dense flowers bloom. The blossoms flourish outwards in a steady, swift growth, almost as if it is a flower itself. The hills and the mountains and creeks all around us are swept with blue as the flood stampedes over each ridge and over each creek, bathing the forest in luminance. They turn their faces to the moon, and, from the moment their petals touch the air, the flowers emit soft, beautiful, blue light, like little glow sticks. I suck in an escaped breath as the ones that bloom around my feet and beneath them are released from their stalks as I turn about to watch the cascade of flowers over the mountains. My disbelief can be heard my rapid breathing, be felt in the hammer of my pulse, be seen in the amazement breaking over my face. Some of the flowers I had not even touched by anything but air waves, I suppose. But every blossom affected by me begins to drift gradually upwards, spinning lazily on their ascent – almost like dandelion seeds, caught in a breeze.

"What the hell," whisper Raffe to my left. He, too, is surrounded by the blue flowers, scooping at them with wide sweeps of his wings to release them into the air. Awe unlike anything I have ever seen in him dominates his expression as he watches them drift upwards. Once the flowers he disturbs float into the sky, though, I cannot help but notice that they do not return to him.

"Enjoy them while they last," calls Hugo, frolicking amongst the grass, a minimal amount of flowers drifting out behind him – it's almost as if he's trying to see how little he can set off. "The first ray of sun sucks their life from them like scorpion-wasp-people suck life from monkeys."

"Was that last part truly necessary?" questions Bryon, twirling through the empty field with his cloak trailing behind him, a massive trail of luminescent blossoms in his wake, clouds of them drifting into the sky. "But he's right. They only can be found on the full moon, too, so enjoy."

I remain as still as a statue, attempting to not even touch another blossom. "What are these?" I whisper.

"What are they?" Bryon truly laughs, the hearty thunder rolling over the valley, the pure vibrations sending the flowers around him into the sky. "They go by many names – Blue Moons, Star Blooms, Floating Flowers – but my favorite is 'the Wishing Blossoms'. For some reason, only my father and I can trigger their flowering – don't ask me how it happens, I quite honestly am not sure. All I know is that they float, and that they don't ever come down."

"But…" I try to sound scientific, knowledgeable, but I end up sounding simply baffled. "How?"

"He won't let me study them," Hugo reports, "and, honestly, I won't press that. I'm a fact guy, I like science, but there are some things you've just gotta excuse, you know? And, let's be honest, they'd be the most difficult things in the world to study. How would you even catch one? With a net?" He gropes at the air, lunging at the floating flowers, sending them caterwauling on their paths. At that moment, Scruffy rockets past him with Paige giggling on his back – the two of them trace crossing lines over the mountains with his subsonic speed, sending thousands of little flowers slowly floating upwards.

"I've got one," announces Bryon, cupping something tenderly between his palms. Smiling benevolently, he plods in my direction, staff pinched in the crook of his arm. "Here." Bryon extends his hands to me, breaking through the storm of blossoms drifting around him. "Take a peek."

Quivering both from overwhelmed emotions and rabid curiosity, I gaze between his large hands, studying the blossom inside. It's shaped almost like a lily with broader petals and less of a pistil. The luminescent color it shines is the palest electric blue, casting beautiful shadows over the palms of Bryon's hands and the planes of his face as it bumps gingerly against his ensnaring fingers. Cautiously, I reach out to take it myself, and Bryon complies – for a moment it sits there, halfway between my hands and his, brushing my fingers with petals as soft as a baby's pale skin. But it sees its chance and drifts between the break of fingers, escaping with its brothers and sisters into the dark night sky.

"It's so beautiful," I murmur, head craned back.

"Yes," answers Raffe from the air – he darts between the floating clouds of flowers, cleaving through them like a knife through butter. Whenever there is a lessening in the flowers swirling and circling, he drags his wing through an empty portion of the field, releasing more into the air. "Yes it is!"

"Look at him," Bryon murmurs for my ears solely. "As giddy as a chick first learning to fly. I suppose that's what being out of that hellhole can do to an angel – they get very twitchy in enclosed areas. And the flowers _are_ quite beautiful. Come on, they won't hurt you."

I gaze once around the regal valley – the mountains once swept with the rounded crests of trees and painted with royal purples and emerald greens now glow blue between the branches of the trees, emitting a soft luminance that seems to touch the stars. Little trails of blossoms lead to the sky from elsewhere, surrounding us on all sides – animals, too, must be wandering these woods, or perhaps another merchant travels a few ridges south from here and stumbled upon this magnificent of beauty. Whatever the case, all the little blossoms leading up to the black velvet sky and the beautiful constellations there is truly worthy of a picture, if only I had a camera. The stars almost seem to welcome the flowers, their cold lights burning a little brighter upon the arrival of their sisters from the earth. Over all of it, the moon still hangs in the sky, almost as if it's a mother's watchful eye over her children as they spin and twirl and dance over the earth below.

Breathing in the dulcet perfume of the blossoms all around me, I take a step into their sea of glowing petals, savoring the moment as the flowers take wing around me, drifting up to join Raffe in the sky.

In my ecstasy, I don't notice the fact that the other trails of glorious flowers seem to encircle us, surrounding our meadow in the way that the predator traps the prey.

* * *

**Alright, well, I had fun with this chapter. I was actually planning to make this one short for you, but... it didn't happen. Sorry.**

**Here's something to think about: Sariel taught Bryon how to get the flowers to bloom when he was just a little thing, in I think the first dream Penryn had. Paige is attached to Bryon and Bryon worships her. Maybe the family trick can get passed down or something. But what do I know? I'm just the writer. **

**POLL: So, they spent a long time travelling in that Nephilim Temple. They're actually quite close to the Sercem Domu (the town), and things are just about to heat up. I'm getting more and more excited. But here's a question: how do you think the Nephilim will receive Penryn and Raffe? Raffe has hunted them for thousands of years, and Penryn... well, she's Bryon's niece, but she's also travelling with and defending Raffe. **

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Chapter Seventeen**

"Raphael?"

My skin tingles and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end with alarm at the sound of the alien voice crying out Raffe's name with desperation and despair on his tongue. My eyes clap against a bloody figure limping from the shrouding shadows of the trees, releasing a trail of flowers. Two wings trail behind the humanoid creature, one only connected by a few veins, the other butchered beyond recognition.

Raffe tenses at the sight of the angel, quickly hiding his demonic wings by snapping them shut against his back. While I analyze the situation, still as a statue in the safety of the open meadow, Raffe approaches with open palms and an expression of disbelief.

"Yaoel," he whispers, stepping in front of Bryon to draw even nearer to the wary angel. "My friend. What are you doing here, so far from the aerie, out in the woods? There are creatures here, unfriendly animals."

The angel snorts, relief coming over his face, slumping his shoulders and relaxing his grip on the sword hilt he'd been clutching so tightly. "You needn't tell me –"

A flash of white sends flowers twirling into the air – it moves so quickly it might as well have been a bullet from a gun. With the sound of tearing flesh quickly cutting off the angel's speech, his head is savagely ripped form his body by a massive white wolf.

Raffe scampers back like a startled mouse, his wings snapping out to their full glory as his friend's decapitated head thuds against the ground at his feet. Hissing with rage, he reaches for a sword strapped to my own hip. Before he can truly register its loss, Bryon has already clapped a hand around Raffe's forearm, dragging him away from the white wolf.

"Stand down, Raphael!" Bryon orders, his tone solid as a block of ice. "Stand down, or we'll have your head at our feet!"

Raffe pays Bryon no heed, kicking and clawing like a little child, roaring at the wolf in fury.

The wolf pays him no heed, either. It has the same spark of cruel beauty as Raffe does himself – the flawless, streamlined build of the swift hunter, and the thick coat of a lupine predator. And, in its eyes, Raffe must seem like the prey as much as the limp angel body at its paws. Glancing once mockingly at Raffe's struggles against Bryon, the wolf buries its snout into the angel's belly, snapping his ribs in half on an upward blow to allow free passage to his more critical internal organs. I glance away as it rips something mercilessly from the chest of the angel, tossing aside lungs and bloody grey organs in the process, looking at the ground.

"Ah, Jane," sighs Hugo tranquilly. "She's beautiful, isn't she?"

Swallowing with immense difficulty, I drag my gaze up to his perch on Scruffy's back, tapping away at his computer. Bile rises in the back of my throat.

"This is Scruffy's girlfriend?" I choke out.

"Yes. The murderer of the murderers." With a devilish grin in my direction, he snaps the lid of his laptop shut. "Angels have this crazy regenerative factor, you know? Like, I've seen one get shot straight through the noodle before and live to tell the tale. That's because as long as most of their internal organs are intact, they can patch themselves back up. Unless you've got an angel sword, because then the metal gives them an allergic reaction and – whoa, getting sidetracked. Anyway, to avoid having her victims wake up and seek revenge, Jane eats them. Foolhardy method. I mean, digested angel isn't going to be doing any zombie shit."

"That's sick," I groan, pivoting away from the she wolf, ignoring the crunch of bones snapping beneath teeth, the rip of organs being torn brutally from their placement in the angel's body. Raffe's furious bellows do well to drone out most of the noises, but not all.

"Hmm. A bit." Hugo's grin grows even broader. "What she does first is she separates the brain and the heart. Good strategy, right? Then she peels back the ribs to trowel out the heart, mauling as many other valuable organs as she can, shredding the lungs and cutting the arteries. She eats that, getting it digesting early on. Then she goes after the brain. You see, when she rips of his head" – Hugo starts to make explanatory gestures, gestures I don't really need nor want to see – "she bites him just so that her upper canines sink into his eye sockets and her lower canines hit him at the base of the neck. To get to his brain, she eats out all the marrow and the flesh and muscles until she starts munching at his noggin. She then proceeds to clean out his skull, licking all the blood and skin away. Sometimes, she eats the rest of the corpse, too – other times, just the meaty sections, leaving the rest for scavengers. She always keeps the skulls, though, the skulls and a few of the feathers. Clever girl."

"Clever?" I glare at him. "I can understand dog-eat-dog logic. I know, I've lived through situations like that. But this sounds like murder to me, a madwoman's murder."

Hugo spreads his hands in an iffy expression. "The murder of a murderer. Who's at fault? Depends on your viewpoint. But she's clever in the way to separate the body and the head. According to scientists, even, scientists studying the theories of the soul, it's the throne of the actual soul – the being of a person – that's in the area of the heart. The mind of a person – the thoughts, the knowledge – is in the skull. The soul goes on, it can leave this plane and pass on after Jane kills one of her victims. But the mind is forever imprisoned in the skull without the heart's soul to first free it, and it can never, ever leave. Jane stockpiles all those skulls in her den, forming her own version of the European Catacombs. All those angry and confused minds together in one space makes those dark tunnels very scary. Some say Jane feeds off thoughts. Others say it's a deal she made with the Devil. All I know is that it's the perfect place to summon Lucius."

"Lucius?" I turn back to Jane, swallowing my disgust, watching as she does indeed rip the skin from the angel's scalp in an effort to reach his brain. Her muzzle is splashed with crimson, her amethyst eyes shadowed with scarlet. Although Scruffy does seem to be drooling, I cannot see a single thing beautiful in the beast anymore.

"Uh huh. The best place to summon a demon is a place that's felt suffering. Nothing's felt suffering like those angel heads. But enough with this depressing conversation." Hugo swings his legs over Scruffy's back, dismounting his wolf only to nudge at the angel's limp wing with his toe. "Now, let's talk about the name Yaoel. That sounds like it came from anime. One of those type-names. Who names their killer angels Yaoel? Hey, Ogden, can you grab my gauntlet?"

Plodding over obediently with a thick metal glove held gingerly in his arms, Ogden hands Hugo the metal contraption. Fascinated, I watch as Hugo slides on the glove and promptly leans down to pluck the angel's sword from his side, flicking it to rid it of some of the sticky blood coating. He lifts the blade to his eye level, looking down the edge to search for imperfections and flaws.

"It's in pretty good condition." He knits his brow. "Yeah, okay. We'll keep it. Seems pretty likely we'll find a buyer soon – you seeing those marks on the wings, too, Ogden? Make sure those steampunk goggles are secure, because I'm pretty sure that the Wives were the ones did this too him; looks to me that Jane just finished the job." Patting Ogden on the shoulder, Hugo turns his back on the corpse and on the monstrous white wolf without a care, holding the sword with his metal gauntlet.

"What are you doing?" Raffe booms, breaking free from Bryon's lock long enough to march up to Hugo. "Are you attempting to plunder the weapon?"

Calmly, Hugo meets Raffe's gaze, tossing the sword up once experimentally. "Yeah, actually, I am. It's not like he's using it anymore."

His statement rubs Raffe the wrong way, as if the angel hadn't been strung up enough.

Voice the low, dangerous growl of the pissed off predator, Raffe settles into an offensive stance. "An angel's sword is his being. His entire soul. His heart, his legacy, his very being. You will not steal his sword from his bloody corpse." Raffe peels his lips over his teeth in a feral snarl. "I will kill you a thousand times before you can take another step from his body."

"Angels are very passionate people, aren't they?" Giggling childishly, a platinum blonde walks from the shadows of the woods – in our chaos, we hadn't even registered her approaching trail of flowers. "You're so funny, absolutely fascinating. Of course, people were the exact same way about their houses and families." Abruptly, her cheerful, round face sharpens, like the broad of the blade being turned until only the edge is visible. "Such a pity the angels ripped those from their hands."

"Daisy," laughs Bryon with relief, his tense muscles relaxing. "At last! Backup! Where's Mauler?"

Her expression softening once more, the blonde strides proudly right up to Bryon, shedding light upon their difference in height – she barely stands at five-two, whereas he towers nearby seven whole feet. "Bryon!" Daisy cries with the drawled accent exploited only in the deep heart of the South, throwing her slender arms around his waist and squeezing. "Oh, it's so good to see you! We had a feeling you were around here somewhere when we saw Tabitha!"

"Tabitha?" I question, voice so soft I don't believe it'll carry over Raffe's intense growling.

"Bryon's unicorn," Hugo explains with a wink in my direction. "With good fortune, we'll see her soon. She's very… irritable."

"Tabitha is not _my_ unicorn, and she's not irritable." Bryon's indignant reaction is more feisty than what it had been defending his own rights. "You are just remarkably talented at ticking people off. You even make unicorns want to gore you in the gut, for God's sake."

The woman, Daisy, laughs. "Hugo is just a special child, aren't you?"

Hugo winks characteristically, leaning forward – in character is what comes to mind, in character of the steampunk merchant, which means this woman is branded as a customer in his eyes.

Daisy laughs at his response, tossing her head up. Her sweater sleeves are slightly too long for her arms, her jeans coming up below her ankles. At her hip, a set of knives hang, partnered with an old fashioned silver revolver. Bright green eyes the color of the golden sun through summer leaves glint in the darkness, reflecting the gleam of the blue flowers. Around her neck, layers of charms and spiritual pendants hang from leather necklaces. Almost everything on her being, from her nearly white hair to her knee-high riding boots, is splattered in various shades and tints of paint.

I do not have long to ogle before I am ripped from my analyzation – something cold and scaly dashes up my leg, winding around it like a snake. Tiny claws pinch into my back and sink into the soft skin of my neck. Jumping and attempting to shake the creature from me, I scream, lashing my shoulder to and fro to loosen its ever-tightening grip.

"Penryn," Bryon husks, a single hand around my flailing fist halting my awkward bucking. "Belle won't hurt you. She's merely curious."

The animal on my shoulders croaks in agreement, almost like a frog.

"Penryn," Raffe whispers in horror, blue eyes wide as pools, tinted the same color as the flowers crowning him. "Don't you dare move. I'll get it off."

Hugo snorts, twirling the angel sword in one hand, nonchalantly ambling over until he's located between Raffe and me. "Ah, no, you won't. You really think I'm going to let you kill another Nephilim? With both a Wife and two of the most powerful ones right here? Not likely."

"This is a Nephilim?" I breathe, rock-still as the creature's flaring nostrils hover over my ear, not daring to protest as it experimentally nuzzles my hair, pulling a strand playfully. It whines and whimpers, cold, serpentine tail writhing over my flesh like a snake in what may be a creepy tail-wag.

"Yes." Gently, Bryon drops my hand, allowing it to hang limply. Extending an arm towards my shoulder, Bryon offers himself as a new perch for the monster. "And just a baby, poor little thing. Her mother was slaughtered when the angels attacked Kenya – the town was obliterated, everyone and everything slaughtered except for her. Nobody knows who the paternal or maternal parents are, but Belle here travels with the Wives."

My taut muscles unravel as the tiny claws release my skin and Belle creeps onto Bryon's thick, muscled arm. A long tail hangs down from her perch, the very tip frayed with long hairs, like a lion's tuft. She's a little larger than a Chihuahua, but not by much. In the darkness of the moment, I can tell no more than that upon her physical features.

"Penryn, honey –" Daisy hesitates, smiling crookedly. "Penryn? Penryn Young?"

I nod in confirmation. "The same."

"Hmm." Daisy grins at me, a more motherly spark entering her evergreen eyes, her expression softening under gaze. "Well, Penryn, dear, Thea will be very glad hear you're in safe hands." She pats Bryon's shoulder in explanation. "I hope you and Belle will get along; she really is quite sweet."

"How has she been, again?" Bryon questions, itching beneath Belle's chin.

"Oh, Belle has been a dream!" Daisy sighs happily. "Her and Mauler get along brilliantly. Mauler really is the sweetest wolf in all the Wife Pack, isn't he? So laid back! This week alone, I swear –"

"Hugo said something I'd like to extend upon," Raffe thunders. The icy, deadly quality to his voice racks my body with startled shivers, and his sinister appearance does no better to assist my building alarm – the scythes on his wings are stretched to full length, hooks still slightly bloodied from their last use. "If I am correct, Hugo just claimed that we are in the presence of a Watcher's wife" – he looks to the mechanic for confirmation, a confirmation he receives without effort – "and three Nephilim." Again, Hugo nods, casually twisting the angelic sword about in one hand.

In the periphery of my vision, I see more sleek-pelted wolves than Jane and Scruffy roiling in the depths of the forest, flashing their ivory fangs, releasing battalions of flowers into the air. I could perhaps be incorrect, but a few dark blots in the sky seem to circle overhead our position. Bryon's grip tightens on his staff, and Daisy slowly edges behind Raffe.

"Oh, dear." Daisy sounds concerned. "Did he not know about that? Oh, you poor thing." She starts forward, thrusting one arm around to the small of his back and rubbing the other up and down his bicep in a motherly fashion. "C'mon, let's get you cocoa and marshmallows a nice, warm fire, eh? How does that sound?"

"Stop it," Raffe snarls, not even looking at Daisy as he bats the woman away. She blinks in injured astonishment, her sleeves falling over her hands as Raffe leaves her behind to stalk up to Bryon.

"Bryon," Raffe growls, teeth bared like a feral hound's, "I'm only going to ask you once. Are you a Nephilim?"

Bryon cocks an eyebrow, not meeting Raffe's gaze, but instead caressing the tips of his fingers around Belle's horns, studying her monstrous face as she purrs and mewls beneath his hands. With each second that ticks by, Bryon seems to undermine Raffe's authority a little more – I don't want to see my uncle ripped apart by Raffe, nor I do I want to see that arrogant archangel humiliated by Bryon; if Bryon doesn't answer soon, I will take the risk and step between the two.

Luckily, however, Bryon does find time in his snuggle therapy to respond to Raffe.

"I'm quite surprised you didn't notice earlier, Raphael." Bryon meets Raffe's gaze with a serene look that balms even my nerves. "I do pray this doesn't interfere with our friendship. That would be quite awful."

Both Daisy and Ogden cry out as Raffe lunges, his fist closing around Bryon's throat. I shout to stop him, but nothing seems to puncture Raffe's battle armor sufficiently enough to breach his instinctive rage. Raffe lifts Bryon from the ground and swiftly hefts him several feet before slamming him into the trunk of a nearby tree, the impact of Bryon against wood so mighty, frail twigs rain and leaves swirl to the ground like a thunderstorm. The wolves in the darkness huff and bark threateningly, still mulling behind an invisible line. Belle is thrown violently from his shoulder, thudding against the ground, hissing in fear at Raffe, and retreating into the bowels of the dark forest for protection.

Bryon's face reddens as Raffe's grip tightens, but he doesn't fight back. He simply watches Raffe with innocent bronze eyes, even as Raffe's fist furls and his arm tenses for a punch atop the strangling.

"Raffe!" I shout, tugging on his bicep. "Stop it!" Though I resent the idea of using his beloved sword against him, it may come to that if he comes to blows.

I know that the wolves are awaiting a command to pounce on Raffe and rip him to shreds. From what I've heard, Raffe isn't very popular, and his death will mean nothing to Bryon's life. The very real possibility haunts me. Fueled by this discord, I snarl and wrestle with him as best I can, dragging back his arm until I can squeeze through the gagging Bryon and him.

Slamming my fist into his throat, I successfully knock Raffe off his balance – his focus had been tunneled on Bryon, his thinking patterns narrow, not searching for another target. As he recoils, gasping to refill his lungs from the deprivation of oxygen, I come as close to his face as possible, grab his collar in an attempt to be superior as opposed to dragging his head down to my level, and rumble, "Raphael. You. Leave. Him. Alone."

At this, Raffe recoils, releasing Bryon and allowing the Dragon King to slump against the bark of the tree, gasping for breath. His umbrage has a new focus – me.

"Penryn," he growls in a tone that legitimately frightens me, "would you like to explain to me what exactly you're doing?"

"Keeping you from getting killed," I discipline in as hard as voice as I can muster while staring into those furious blue eyes.

"Oh?" His breathing grows ragged. "Are you?"

"Take a look around, Raffe. We're in Nephilim territory. I'm not exactly sure about the Wives, but they seem badass enough to have been originally been the ones tracking your dead friend over there. They can probably pitch in, too. Don't look up now, but we've also got buddies to the sky. If you take a wrong step here, you'll get yourself slaughtered. Call me crazy for wanting to prevent that."

Raffe seems only slightly contained, his breathing still haggard. "Did you know about this?" he accuses, piercing blue eyes searching my face. "You don't even seem the slightest bit surprised by knowing that Bryon, our little camp leader, is a monster."

"I'm surprised and disgusted by your temper." I ignore the emotion this draws in his eyes, only focusing on constructing the tough attitude I must display to calm him. "Otherwise? No. Bryon's been pretty frank with me. Frank enough for me to know that he's a good guy."

"If he's such a saint, why didn't he come and spit it out to all of us?" Raffe snarls, his grand wrath trickling away into something less formidable. "Why did he keep his secrets instead of revealing his true nature? It would've made things simpler."

"Dude," Hugo laughs from behind Raffe, "do you think we're stupid? He would've been skewered before he could reach 'and who are you' questions."

Raffe's growl almost seems like a titanic boulder tumbling down a mountain's face. "For all the right reasons."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Daisy's cross sigh holds the cadence of a pissed off southern belle. "Raphael, are you blind? Bryon hates you probably more than you hate him – you have killed hundreds of his siblings. Even _I_ hate _you_ more than you can even possibly hate him. You've slaughtered all my children up until the past few centuries, slaughtered 'em like pigs. So, I suppose what I'm trying to say is" – Daisy bats her eyes, the pale lashes emerging from her lids like whalebones half-submerged in sand – "you've made enemies, enemies that'd like you dead, while this man has been making nothing but friends. Kill him, and you'll face a universal witch-hunt."

Though his security in his superior position seems marginally altered by our resistance, but his throne still has three legs to stand on. "I can outfly any humans. Let them come."

"But can you escape those things?" Again, I jab at the sky, gesturing towards the circling creatures.

"Seraphim," Daisy provides, eyes grazing over the serpentine shapes. "Three female Seraphim."

"Where there are females, there's males," Hugo elucidates helpfully. "Their combined powerful is too great for this world… When a Seraphim passes together, the moon and the sun seem to become _one_ and the angel and the Fallen walk as friends…"

"Nutball," Bryon wheezes, drawing my attention to his crippled form, leaning against a tree, and the bruises already clouding the tan skin at his throat, the imprints of Raffe's fingers entwining over his windpipe sending a shiver through my veins. With the faintest hint of bronze through a slit of his eyelids, Bryon watches us with a lazy gaze, his eyes occasionally drifting down to my sister where she sits crouched by his side, caressing his cheek the way one might quiet a wounded puppy.

"Jerk," Daisy offers in response.

"Bitch," Hugo spits.

Bryon's smile broadens across his face, bringing a taut grin to my sister and to me as well. Something about those two phrases seems to warm Bryon to his core, and the sight of him being so giddy is oddly heartwarming.

But his glee is quickly snuffed out by rasping coughs issued from the very back of his throat, wet hacking that doesn't sound pleasant. Leaning to one side, he spits out a glob of quiver phlegm onto a mass of flowers; the blossoms flee from the nastiness, escaping in the sky with disgust trailing in their wake. Paige cups his cheek in alarm, meeting my eyes with a plea written in stitches.

Hugo kneels by Bryon's side, compassionate concern splintering his youthful expression with glimpses of an older spirit. With two fingers, he tilts Bryon's chin up, gently pulling at his cloak to get a better look at the wounds. Momentarily forgetting the crisis at hand, I kneel beside him, clasping his knee for reassurance that no heat has escaped his body and dashed upwards to the stars alongside his flowers. Bryon's callused hand closes over mine in familial comfort, peeling open one eye between coughs to meet my gaze for mere seconds.

Raffe's voice shoots ice through my veins. "Get away from him, Penryn. Keep your sister back."

Chilled by the open malice in his voice, I choose to ignore Raffe's order, focusing on cupping my sister's other hand in mine.

"Penryn," Raffe commands from directly behind me, "step away from that monster."

Bryon's hand tightens slightly around mine, perhaps in response to the insult.

Raffe grabs my arm and rips it from Bryon's grasp, yanking me savagely to my feet, twisting me about until I glare deep into his blue eyes. His fist curling tighter and tighter around my forearm invites nervousness, nervousness that he may crush my arm entirely in the palm of his hand. With the strength building in his grip, he very well might. To avoid that happening and to avoid Bryon leaping up to defend me, I meet his gaze levelly.

"Raffe, what are you doing?" I hiss at him, anger seeping in each word.

"You were keeping me alive by stopping me from killing him." Raffe's gaze hardens. "I get that. Now, I'm keeping you from getting slaughtered. No matter what deals he can offer you, you must turn them down. We need to leave _now_, need to see this place disappear over the horizon."

I feel baited to spit out the truth, to tell him that Bryon is my uncle, but logic halts my words – if Raffe is reacting so chaotically to a single Nephilim, he wouldn't take it very well that I'm one. With the mood he's in, my head would be lopped from my shoulders before I could breathe of word of explanation.

Instead, I settle with, "Raffe, he's given us no reason not to trust him. He's admitted that he doesn't like you, but he's trying to… I dunno, make up? The least we can do is see this through until the Nephilim town."

Raffe's rage overwhelms his expression, his fist tightening to a point of pain around my wrist. "Given us no reason not to trust him?" Raffe roars. "What do you know about this beast, Penryn? You know nothing!" Lips peeling back over his teeth with primitive hatred, Raffe cocks his head towards Bryon's broken form. "I know who he is, inside out and backwards. _Know your enemy_. I know him well. This man puts on a façade of innocence and rips you apart the moment your back is turned."

"Oh, please," I snort, twisting my wrist back and forth in a desperate attempt to dislodge his strangling grip.

"I have seen him destroy nations, Penryn," Raffe murmurs softly. "I have seen him raze cities simply by thrashing his tail. Bryon is not a good man. He has never been a good man, and he never will be."

"Let go of me, you're crushing my arm!" I order, peeling my own lips back at him. "And, if you want to know my opinion on the matter, I'd say you two are pretty much the same. In case you hadn't noticed, you've killed millions! You've slaughtered nations, brought humanity to its knees, and you don't even seem slightly apologetic! You don't try to make friends, don't try to repent for your wrongdoing! No matter how bad you think Bryon is, you're a thousand times worse!"

In that moment of pithy fury and pent-up aggression at last freeing itself from its constant bonds, I simply do not care if Raffe wasn't behind the apocalypse, I do not care if he took no part in it, I do not even care if he is indeed a thousand times better a man than Bryon. The tension of carrying around a thousand weights on my soul breaks loose like a dam giving way to a deluge. Inundated with emotions and fury, care not how algid my words are, nor do I care if Raffe is just as confused as I.

Raffe drops my arm, shock blanketing his expression.

His expression stiffens, his fists curling into tight knots. "I didn't know you felt that way."

"Damn," Hugo whispers to Daisy. "This is an all-out argument. Like, they're at each other's throats."

"This could become interesting," she observes, "but interesting really isn't what I came here for." Daisy half-cocks her head towards Hugo, extending an open hand. "We saw Jane dart after Yolo or whatever his name was, and gave up the chase there – but we still want the sword. Hand it over."

"I pillaged the corpse first," Hugo protests, toying distractedly with his tie. "It's rightfully mine."

"Killer gets first picks of the spoils," Daisy points out.

"Yeah, but you didn't kill him."

"I poisoned him. He wasn't going to last much longer than an hour."

"Ah." Hugo holds up a finger to silence any more of her argument. "But Jane dealt the killing blow. And I pillaged the corpse first."

"You two are ridiculous," Bryon grunts, smiling weakly with lips still slightly quivering. Growling to himself, he plows the tip of his staff into the soft dirt at the foot of the tree he slumps against, and drags himself up the sturdy plank of wood. Hand over hand, he rises, with my little sister tenderly aiding every move.

"Whoa." Briskly, Hugo attends Bryon, laying a hand on his chest to try and push him down. "I'm no doctor, but I'm mildly certain you shouldn't be moving just quite yet, no matter how regenerative your Wolverine blood is."

"Nonsense!" Bryon chuckles, genial smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He nudges Hugo's assistance away without a trace of weariness, patting Paige on her shoulder in appreciation of her work. Then, he lifts his head and cracks his neck, rolling back his shoulders, and sighing heavily.

"There!" With a broad grin, Bryon meets my gaze. "Good as new! Now, I don't want any fighting in the camp" – he steps towards Raffe and I with the slightest hint of a limp hindering his gait – "so, you two, whatever you're fighting about, make up. _Hug_."

Though he might've had a point about not wanting fighting in camp – a good general always wants his men in order – I don't quite comprehend the last word to leave his mouth. Evidently, Raffe, too, has difficulties fully understanding Bryon.

"Hug?" he questions balefully, glare fixed on Bryon.

"Hug," Hugo pipes up. "They're when one person wraps their arms around another person, either around the torso, over the arms and around the back, or around the waist. They're usually used to show signs of affection, comfort, reassurance, and making up." Raffe and I both relax, neither one prepared for Hugo's additional statement. "Hugs often happen before sex, too."

"Thank you," Bryon trumpets, cutting off Hugo before he goes into great depth of his gay fanfictions. "Thank you, very much, for that. Yes, Raffe, I said hug. Make up. If I believed you were still ticked at me more than you're now ticked at Penryn, then I'd make sure we hugged, too. We still might, if you don't stop glaring at me." For a second, Bryon imitates Raffe imprudently, flaring his nostrils and rounding his eyes. "That's what you look like, it's quite annoying. Now. Hug."

Our glares meet with disharmony, anger curling his lip and tightening my grip at Pooky Bear's hilt.

"Hug!" Bryon snaps, authority ringing in his voice.

Still, Raffe seems indignant – his disgust is somewhat of a punch to the heart. But I have no wish to infuriate my rapidly recovering uncle, knowing the mood he is most likely squashing for the good of all.

"C'mhere, Casanova," I mutter, eyes trained on the ground at Raffe's feet. In the corner of my eye, though, I do glimpse his arms crossing over his chest in a sign of intolerance, even as I reach around his muscled torso. Disdainfully, I awkwardly pat at his back, face squashed up against his thick-girthed arms to reach around him all the way.

"You, too, Raffe," Hugo calls.

Raffe does not move. I release him, knowing very well that I'd done my job. It's not my fault if Raffe's being stubborn.

But, just as I retract, unwinding my arms from around him, Raffe lunges forward, his arms uncrossing and slamming my body against his. The energy in his embrace forces a breath out of me, but it would've been stolen anyways by the fact that he's hugging me at all. Though initially awkward, as my face is buried into his suffocating chest, as Raffe settles around me, it grows more comfortable. Like a little kitten, he cradles me, nuzzling my hair. His breath circles over my scalp, sending tingles over my skin. From my position, ear against his pectoral and forehead resting at his collar, I can hear the resounding rhythm of his heart.

This, this embrace in the middle of the moonlight woods with none but misfits and monsters looking on, this hug he gifts me with even though he knows he shouldn't – this is his apology for the things he's done, and I feel that, with each throb of his heartbeat and each breath circling through the air.

I twine my arms around his neck, trying to physically communicate with him the way he had with me by digging my fingers into his flesh and holding tight. And, in this moment, everything seems flawless, with the floating flowers all around us and the stars like a million twinkling bystanders.

"See?" Bryon murmurs, leaning heavily on his staff, stroking Belle with two fingers. "Isn't a hug wonderful?"

Over the hill, a chorus of baying wolves or dogs sounds, howling at the moon and yipping for attention. They bark loud and crisply, as if agreeing with my uncle: hugs are, in fact, wonderful.

* * *

**Alright, so, last chapter was pretty nice and calm and chill and such – but this one? Stuff happened, stuff happened big time. No doubt there's jealousy in Raffe of Bryon, and a new hatred for that matter – he can't want Penryn liking a Nephilim. **

**Daisy was introduced. Ogden really wasn't any help. Hugo succeeded in making things awkward. **

**POLL: So, this means that Uriel is on to something, doesn't it? Raffe didn't do his job, not completely – not if there are still Nephilim left over. And that, my friends, is definitely something big to Raffe, isn't it? So what should he do? Should he do the same thing as Gabriel, something even Bryon had sympathized with: letting one nation fall to allow prosperity to the rest? **

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**Chapter Eighteen**

The night is lonely without companionship, the distant howling of wolves somehow my only comfort in the shadows. Scruffy, too, patrols the darkness, his nose puffing away at the ground to sniff out anything threatening that may be invisible to me. Every now and then, his cinnamon pelt passes beneath a teardrop of starlight, illuminating the coppery eyes he searches the darkness with. The few patches of swirling blossoms left in fly into the air, tracing his path over the hillside to a disturbing distance.

I am alone aside from the meandering wolf and the snores of the sleeping people around me. Raffe lies on his side away from the rest of the group – he keeps himself a fair distance from Bryon's peaceful slumbering form, as if there's an invisible line drawn between them. Ogden, though, clearly disregards any such line, sprawled ungracefully between the two of them. Around his feet, a sleepy Hugo curls, snoring softly.

Hugo had done business with Daisy, and she'd departed with new goods – the sword as well as the on-sale angel shield. In return, Hugo had only asked for something he'd called Life Insurance.

"It's a difficult time," he'd pressed, cocking both eyebrows, leaning forward and smiling mysteriously at Daisy, sickly gaze both alarming and trustworhy. "People are getting their throats slitted and angels are raining from the sky like toads. It soothes my nerves, knowing that there's a badass wife to avenge me, should the worst happen."

I shiver in the moonlight from atop my perch on a star-kissed boulder. Curling in a tighter ball around myself, I allow my vision to dart about the countryside, searching for any sign of disarray. Up until now, it hadn't been boring – in this forest, there always seems to be something happening. Whether it's the flocks of winged snakes winding silently through the sky above us or the appearance of a small brigade of fallen angels coasting over the mountain and sending flowers into the air, something always happened – there was never a dull moment.

But now, I can feel the austere silence boring into my patience. Bryon had pointed out exactly where the moon would lounge in the star-studded sky when it was time for Raffe's watch, and now, the ivory orb sits only a fraction away from where it must lay.

We'd crashed not long after Raffe's freak-out – Bryon hadn't been in the best of situations, and Raffe in himself seemed pretty exhausted, eager for a brain-break. Luckily, they'd both been able to drag their feet to a suitable location to set up camp before they both hit the sack. Hugo crashed on the way here while getting a lift from his wolf, his snores buried deep into Scruffy's mane, his hands dangling lifelessly. I'd been elected to stand watch first, since I was the only one even mildly coherent.

But now, at the start of the haunting hours of the night when all the shadows seem to come alive, I don't feel very happy about it. I'm gleeful by the time the moon reaches the correct position, hanging over two ridges on the horizon. Vaulting down from my placement on the boulder's crown, I stalk as silently as possible through the camp, weaving through obstacles, up to Raffe's slumbering figure.

For half a second, I analyze the rise and fall of his breath, watching the faint quiver of his hair in the bitterly nipping wind. His face is still, the chiseled features maintaining a shadow of their lucid glory. _Archangel Raphael._

Leaning forward, I gingerly tap his shoulder.

Almost before I touch him, his eyes slide open. Preparedness and unsurprised greeting meet me. There are no awkward grunting noises to signify that he's only just now arising – it seems to me that he's already awake.

"Did I wake you?" I whisper, eyebrows rising skeptically, lips hardening into a straight line.

Raffe sighs in hushed defeat, closing his eyes for a millisecond more. "No. But sitting here and thinking has been nice. My turn for watch?"

"Mmm-hmm. You might want to do another check of the surrounding areas again – I mean, I know that Scruffy's padding around out there, but I trust you more than I trust that wolf."

"That's because angels are very trustworthy creatures," Raffe grunts as he flips onto his stomach, "and wolves often mislead naïve young maidens." Pushing up off the ground, Raffe adds, "Also, Seraphim are very superficial. Don't trust Seraphim. That's why they've got so many wings, they're full of secrets."

"Sure." I roll my eyes at him, attempting to ignore the mussed turmoil of his hair and the way it falls into his face, like ebony blood seeping into the blue pools. "Just keep an eye out for those wolves, you hear them? They started howling after you first lost your cool, and they're getting loud again."

Raffe salutes mockingly, his black eyebrows playfully raised. "Whatever you say, my Evil Queen."

And, teasing expression still dominating his face, Raffe strides off, into the embrace of darkness, shielded from my vision by the shadows.

As the planes of his back melt into the blackness, I turn back to the mess on the ground, studying all the slumbering figures once more. On any other occasion, I would sleep with Paige curled up against me in the crook of my body separate from the rest of the party, but she has found comfort with another. My baby girl's lying on Bryon's stomach, her head at his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his neck. With each of his deep breaths, she bobs up and down, as if nodding to me.

I suppose there isn't a real reason I still can't sleep beside Paige.

Uncertainly, I shuffle over to Bryon, staring down at his peaceful face. Unlike many people, his slumbering features don't hold the dramatic difference from awake to asleep. The same tranquility remains, a stencil of overwhelming serenity – though his face is absent of the amused smiles pulling at his handsome lips or his eyes which twinkle and gleam so wisely in the light, the sense of balance hasn't change. If I had to decide, I would describe him as still being contented.

I pray that I won't disturb his assumption of calm as I settle down beside him. To keep him comfortable, I allow a fair amount of space between my uncle and I.

Nuzzling a bed into the soft grasses and mosses, I coil up in on myself, turned away from Bryon so that my back should warm slightly. The winter's coming wrath already is slinking into the land, released onto us by the stars above. A shiver rocks my body, chills creeping up my arms like millions of many monsters pricking me with the tips of their frigid fangs.

Sighing, I release a breath into the air, watching as it dissolves into the sky. Shutting my eyes, I hug myself a bit tighter, ignoring the ice-cold ground and damp foliage. As I lay quivering, surrounded by the frozen blades of grass and volatile winds, sudden comprehension for Raffe's sleeplessness comes upon me – once I reach sleep's gentle embrace, the cold's talons will no longer be able to sink into my skin, but for the time being, the inescapable winter's coy breath still plays with my hair.

Something stirs, movement over the algid grass. A warm arm wraps around me, gently pulling me from my makeshift bed, cradling me against a heated body. Instead of being carried by the blades of frozen weeds, now, I find comfort on a familiar cloak's fabric. Groaning softly, I turn over onto my other side, finding my face staring into Bryon's ribcage. Readjusting until my head is pillowed on his shoulder, I struggle to find a more comfortable position for the two of us.

The magnanimous gleam of his bronze eyes shimmer in the darkness, black pupils trained on me with familial warmth melting there. The wisdom and laughter that his slumbering face had been lacking reappear as he guards me against the cold, imbued with a sense of security.

A candid mixture of the same security and awkwardness fills my stomach. Being cuddled against Bryon makes me feel safe, harbored against the cold, warming my head to my toes. But the presence of awkwardness is not far – true, he is my uncle, but he is clutching me against him like a precious stuffed doll. Though for all I know, that is what a family does. Paige certainly finds no hesitation in curling up beside Bryon – should I not, either?

Blanketed by his emanating warmth, I allow myself to drift into the arms of sleep. Though the scaly fingers of the ice attempt to pry me from the warm coma I've entered, Bryon's amorous arms are a shield from all harmful enemies. With every lethargic thud of his sleepy heart, I feel myself lulled deeper into sleep, happy in my uncle's protection.

I probably would've fallen asleep there, carried completely into the sea of dreams. I probably would've woken up the next morning yawning and stretching, cracking my neck to be rid of the odd sensation in my bones. I probably would've kissed my little sister on the nose and held her hand as Ogden dished out breakfast, whistling all the while.

Unfortunately, though, peace does not often correlate with reality.

A rabid snarl of anger rips me from my sleep. Jolting awake, I untangle from Bryon's groggy arms, sitting up straight. Before I even fully acknowledge my situation, a cold stone forms at the bottom of my stomach, an icy fist gripping my heart mercilessly. Upon glimpsing the threat, the issuer of the feral growl, my heart plummets.

Raffe studies my sleeping position alongside Bryon with truculent eyes and viciously bared teeth. His fists clench and unclench by his sides in the same rhythm that his wings furiously fold and unfold, scythes gleaming wickedly in the starlight.

"Raffe –" I whisper, struggling to right myself, to explain to him that it's not what it appears to be.

Raffe doesn't respond to me in any way, agitatedly pivoting on heel and stalking into the forest. The anger carving his terse posture sends my initially still heart racing, bringing bouts of worry upon me. From the moment Raffe exits my line of vision, I struggle to stand, kicking my feet awake and blinking my eyes rapidly.

Shivering against the sudden cold I am immersed in the second I exit Bryon's embrace, I start after Raffe, contemplating the sense of calling out his name.

"Penryn," Bryon calls softly from his position on the ground.

Cautiously, I turn my head about, pausing to hear what he may advise.

His bronze gaze is level, his fingers rubbing circles on Paige's back to lull her back to sleep. "Say whatever you have to."

The enormity of what he says drops on my shoulders a few seconds after his statement – I can tell him whatever Bryon has told me, tell him whatever was supposed to remain between the two of us. With that realization, I gasp audibly into the cold air – my uncle has granted me clearance on anything I wish to say.

With this thought reeling in my mind, I bundle my clothes around myself, and start after Raffe into the cold woods.

Of course, I'm wiser this time about wandering about aimlessly – last time I'd ventured into these foreboding woods, I gotten lost and provoked a cherub attack. Simply thinking about the heavenly feline makes my scars ache. To avoid anything like another cherub or whatever else may live in this forest, I'll stick to the hasty path Raffe carved into the leaves.

"Raffe!" I call, voice still hushed as not to draw attention to myself. "_Raffe!_"

Twigs snap beneath my feet and leaves rustle with my stride – I wouldn't be very difficult to locate, even without the added vocal noise. But anything to gain that archangel's attention is good enough for me.

"Raffe!" I hiss. A histrionically imploring note enters my tone. "Raffe, please!"

"Don't you dare 'please' me," he snaps tenaciously, solidifying from the liquid shadows draping over a jagged boulder. His arms are crossed, his eyes glazed with fury. "You have no right to 'please' anything."

"Raffe!" Breathing a sigh of relief and releasing a silver breath as a salute to the moon, I start out towards him. "I thought you'd flown off."

Impervious glare intensifying, Raffe's growl grows just loud enough for it to reach my ears. "Give me one reason I shouldn't. Just one reason." Leaning forward to illuminate the pearly gleam of his bared teeth, Raffe snarls, "Give me a reason I should stick around, you treacherous, filthy monkey."

Stung more by the harsh bluntness in his tone than the words I've all heard before, I recoil, backing away before I'd even reached him. "Treacherous?" I bark, disbelief fueling a responding anger. "Give me one way that I've been even slightly treacherous! I've been loyal to you, Raffe!"

"Have you?" Raffe's toneless laugh is chilling. "Oh, I won't give you a reason. You know. You know what you're doing to me."

"No," I retort with a clenched voice, "I really don't. Mind elaborating upon my genius plan?"

Raffe stands up straight, stalking up until he is glaring me directly in the eyes.

"You," Raffe snarls spitefully, "are a demon to me, calling forth my lusts and desires and loves. You know this. You know what you do to me. But then you curl up alongside that monster, you side against me, you choose something other than me. You give me no other option, but you have no trouble showing that you are free, that I do not bind you the way you bind me."

"You're saying I'm a temptress?" I challenge, sizing him up hostilely. "That you don't have any effect on me in the slightest."

"Not from what I've seen!" Raffe bellows, stepping forward, even closer than before. "Socializing freely with that monster, allowing him to coddle your sister, even sleeping alongside him! You do not even seem to have a respect for my _disgust!_"

"Oh, for God's sake!" I cry, shaking my head. "You're a jealous pig, Raffe! A hedonist! Wake up and smell the cookies!"

"Do you know something I don't, Penryn?" His face looms before mine, voice dropping into a creepy softer volume. Blue eyes contain the inimical glaze of wrath and fury. "I advise sharing it with me. Quickly, before my patience wears thin."

"Bryon is my uncle!" I shout at him, baring my teeth.

Deathly silent follows this exclamation. Horror gleams in Raffe's eyes as he recoils.

"What?" he whispers, voice as fragile as a pane of glass.

Guiltily, I stare at the ground. "Bryon is my uncle. My father was his brother. That's what an uncle is."

Another silence follows, one in which I take an immense interest in my shoes and the mud on the toes of my right boot. My heartbeat flutters pathetically, spluttering between fear and dread like a one-winged butterfly.

"You're one of them," Raffe realizes hoarsely. There is tangible pain in his voice. "Lord Almighty, you're one of the sick bastards."

"Raffe," I plead, meeting his befuddled gaze with as innocent an expression I can manage, "it's still me. I'm still Penryn. Just… just not a Daughter of Man. Not fully."

"How long…?" Slowly retreating, his hand flying for a sword that's vacant, Raffe swallows. "How long have you known this?"

"Since a few days ago." Halfheartedly, I reach a hand in his direction, as if to halt his flight from me – but it hovers uncertainly, only half bridging the gap between him and me, before dropping back to my side. Agony twists my heart at the horror slowly shifting into disgust on his face. "Bryon told me in the Chaza. After… after I left with Scruffy."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Raffe demands, gnashing his teeth. Upon his own face, there is a turmoil of emotions – wrath, hate, anger, guilt, pity, reluctance, _confusion_. "Why didn't you tell me, Penryn?"

"Because I was scared." My own words promote new sources of fright to pollute my common sense, and it doesn't take long of my staring up at him and his shadow falling upon me before Raffe isn't the only one backing away. "Because I knew how brutal you could be. And now –" I swallow, clutching my arm with one hand, attempting to shrink into my surroundings, return to that warm, fuzzy cocoon Bryon provided me with. "Now, you tried to strangle Bryon. So I guess I'm still scared, maybe even more than before."

Again, Raffe falls quiet, though, this time, his boring gaze does not seem so blurred with confusion. Sharp intelligence cuts over my form, a fierce evaluation. My pulse stampedes as, one by one, the scythes slide from their sheathes, winking at me cruelly beneath the stars.

"Look at you," he marvels quietly, voice not emitting a trace of emotion. "Scanning the area for ways to escape me." The brief quiet that follows this is more of a thoughtful one. "All this time," he muses without amusement, "and you were a hated enemy." He exhales slowly, kneading two fingers into his forehead. "I wish you were a Daughter of Man. It would make this excruciating decision… so much easier."

"Bryon says that I don't have many qualities of a Nephilim," I admit begrudgingly, glancing once up at him. "That's got to amount for something. Right?"

"Hmm," Raffe disapproves. After another silence, he sighs quite loudly. "Well, alright. I'm going to sleep. I'll deal with it in the morning. G'night."

I start with surprise, scrunching my face at him. True to his word, Raffe first calmly clambers up the neighboring boulder to its rough top. He lays flat on his back, one hand strewn over his face to block the heaven's light. Stretching out his ebony black wings to their full glory, he allows them to droop lifelessly over the edges of the boulder.

"Wha – why aren't you going back to the camp?" I question, stepping forward.

"Don't know," he answers with a familiar tone of voice, a voice syrupy with arrogant laziness. "It could be the monster. Or that insufferable monkey. Or other unnamed individuals."

For the second time, I hesitate in my reply, unwilling to leave Raffe all by himself on the outskirts of our camp with Wives scurrying about the countryside. "But you're on watch. You have to stay on watch. That's why we have a watch system in the first place."

"Do we really need a wolf and a person on watch?" Raffe inquires with a dull grunt. "Let the mutt handle it."

"It's cold," I criticize, stepping even closer to him. "Your wings are going to freeze and catch frostbite and drop off, unfurled like that."

Raffe laughs tonelessly. "Good. About time I got rid of the damned things."

My hesitation to leave him by himself in the woods stretches into another silence. There is nothing binding him to our party now – not after I've revealed my bloodlines and I'm relatively safe beneath Bryon's wing. If I desert him now, there's no telling if he'll be here in the morning. I suppose eventually he'd have to stop by for Pooky Bear – but that wouldn't be until after he hacked off these phony wings in replacement for his own. His snowy wings are safely tucked amongst Hugo's supplies, although I can't envision Raffe having much difficulty clawing through the surplus of packs.

Making my decision, I grip the freezing surface of the rock with numb fingers, hooking them in little holes. Slowly and unsteadily, I scale its side, trying to avoid Raffe's wing and the razor sharp barbs as much as possible.

"Penryn," Raffe sighs wearily, "what are you doing?"

"Keeping you company," I inform him through gritted teeth. One hand smacks onto the top of the rock, groping about blindly for something to pull me up completely. "You'll get lonely, all by yourself. Besides, if you" – I swallow, and my voice grows quiet – "if you need Pooky Bear back, it'll be easier for you to retrieve it."

Raffe ponders this as I try to hook my fingers into a crevice in vain. "Go back to Bryon," he huffs. "I want to be lonely."

"Well, yeah," I grunt, wincing as my arm accidently catches on one of the scythes and spills crimson blood down my elbow, "if I go back, I'll have no idea where to go. With my sense of direction, I'd get lost, and then you'd have to be the Knight in Feathered Armor again. Save me from the Boogey Man, or whatever else is out there."

Raffe's warm, firm hand closes around mine. Effortlessly, he tugs me up to where he lies. Slowly, he retracts all of his barbs, creating a less hazardous environment for me. "You're going to freeze your face off," he chastises.

"Good." I grin cheekily at him, settling onto the stone's face. "About time I got rid of this damned thing."

Raffe rolls his eyes, moving his lips in the ghost of inaudible words. "Fine. Die. See if I care." And with that, he rolls over, taking his scythed wings with him – they fold neatly against his back, two shadowy curtains against his lush caramel skin, curtains guarding the rest of him from my sight or aggravation.

Hurling up a defensive barrier between Raffe and I, I answer callously, "It'll be the first thing I do this morning. You'll have to remind me, I'm awful at remembering things late at night. Do you have a notebook I can borrow?"

Raffe does not take the effort to sigh at my snide remark. "Good night, Penryn." It isn't merely a farewell as he descends into dreams – it's a conclusion, an abrupt halt to any form of communication between the two of us. That alone can be considered offensive, but his tone is sharp and imprudent, carrying the cadence of arrogance and the pitch of dislike.

Puffing out a long, annoyed breath, I roll until my back is facing him, cuddling up against the prodding stone as best I can. It numbs my cheek and sends barrages of chills up my neck with its bitter skin, frigid as the winter's heart itself. "Good night, Raffe," I grunt, struggling to keep my tone civil.

After my statement, the tense air keeps my senses vividly admiring the shadowed thickness of the woods and cool stone pillow with icy fingers reaching through my clothes to claw at my skin. But, eventually, my weary soul falters – some part of me wonders if the strange detachment I feel from my numbed limbs is normal. Most of me, however, only lusts to fall asleep.

The first shiver racks through my body, its arrival violent as it quakes down my spine, alarming after the sweet, dull nothingness of a sleepy mind. It doesn't distract me long from the evanescent thoughts still flourishing in my brain.

And so many things to think about! My sister and her harrowing metal fangs clacking with each gnash of her jaw, the building tension between my wise old uncle and Raffe, the promise of a Nephilim city so close and yet so far – even my mother's wellbeing reaches me that night lying atop that bitterly cold rock.

My father does, too.

As I lapse much deeper into sleep's nurturing arms, more complex thoughts happen upon me, thoughts my fatigued brain doesn't even dare attempt to solve – where is my father? Is it possible that Bryon's burning bush God truly does exist, and that my dad's in a better place? Or would he have gone to the place below? Does such a place as Hell exist? It must, for that's where Bay fled to. But if Hell exists, does Heaven? Or is Heaven a fantasy to keep those of us left here on Earth a whim of comfort as we slip into the world beyond? Maybe the entire theory of Heaven and Hell is flawed, and we do not truly have souls at all? But then why would Hugo discuss the ghosts of Jane's victims?

These thoughts initially distract me from the winter shaking my bones and rattling my teeth together ferociously. My teeth clip my tongue and graze the tender inside of my mouth, drawing blood and letting its nasty coppery taste mull about. Startled by my hands jerking about madly over the stone, I peel open my eyes, focusing my muddy gaze on the tremors racing through them with distant curiosity.

Huffing out a loud breath through my quivering teeth, I curl tighter on myself, slipping my palms beneath my shirt to the warm flesh hidden beneath my layers of clothing. Though my hands heat against my torso, it doesn't take me too long to realize that lying ice cold fingers against the soft, warm skin of my unprotected belly would've been a poor choice of action. Yanking them out and ignoring the spreading chill prickling along my ribs, I ball my hands into fists and slam them beneath my armpits.

The violent chatter of my teeth prevents any true venture into sleep to be made, so instead, I try to count the stars above me. My muddy vision makes even that difficult, with its jerky patterns and nonexistent clarity. Unwilling to face the truth of my deteriorating gaze, I swiftly shut my eyes and attempt to curl tighter in on myself.

Without even truly acknowledging the fact, I squirm slightly closer to Raffe, seeking out the warmth I sense him emitting over the rough stone.

My frigid back brushes his, flesh brushing for a split second.

His warmth vanishes almost instantly, Raffe shying from my cold touch.

Embarrassment would've sent a heated flush to my cheeks, if there was any heat to spare. Instead, I settle for huffing in shame through chattering teeth, sending a silver plume of breath to greet the stars for me.

"Penryn?" Raffe's weary voice is inquisitive. "Penryn, what's wrong?"

His voice alights a fire inside me, not one that can melt away the ice gnawing at my limbs, per se, but one that can be goaded higher and burnt as fuel. In response to his question, I whisper something unintelligible through rigid lips, something even I can't understand.

"Penryn?" Worry laces through his glorious voice. The worry concentrates as he lays a hand against my forearm, growing strangely feverish. "Penryn, you're cold as ice." His entire arm drapes over me. "Perhaps even colder."

"S-s-sorry," I stutter.

"Sorry," he mutters spitefully, both arms wrapping around me. "For what, you idiotic monkey? What do _you_ have to be sorry for?" Expertly, he hooks me beneath the ribs, turning me in his arms until we look one another in the eyes once more. With my shaky gaze, everything about him quivers aside from the intense blue of his gorgeous eyes against mine.

"On second thought," Raffe considers as I move my frozen lips in a vain attempt to create words that may adequately describe my apologies, "don't tell me." Nestling me closer against his sauna-like warmth, curling a wing around me to guard against the cold like a Windbreaker jacket, he even attempts to warm me with his breath – it pours over my skin, hot and sour, warming the skin of my face to a marginal degree. Every inch of my flesh is against his, receiving its warmth.

Pressing myself against his heat, I whisper again, "Sorry."

Raffe sighs heavily, breaking the steady pattern of the breaths he'd been so carefully measuring. "For what, Penryn?" Nimbly removing one of his arms from its placement wrapped around my shoulders, he takes both of my fists in one massive hand, and guides them beneath his shirt to the flat plane of his muscular stomach. Though his intent is clearly not far from my strategy had been, to warm my fingers against the warmest areas of the body, my mind wanders to more creative things my hands could be doing beneath his shirt. It takes great mental restraint to do no more than cup the ridges of firm muscle.

Once more, his breath pours down the planes of my neck, billowing against my face. "What are you trying to apologize for, Penryn?"

"Binding you," I breathe, curling tighter into his chest to hide my shame. "Sorry. I didn't… didn't want to."

Raffe does not answer me, does not respond in any way. He doesn't stop breathing on me, doesn't pull out of his embrace or remove my shield against the wind, but he doesn't really extend any other offer. It comes to the point where the awkwardness forces me to reluctantly sift my hands from beneath his shirt.

"What are you doing?" Raffe upbraids in critical bemusement. "Those aren't anywhere near warm yet. Put them back, you're going to freeze to death."

Obediently, I obey, smiling frailly against his skin. Tingles of warmth leap up my spine, heat blossoming over my face in what I hope is a blush. I hope that he can't see it, that my face is hidden against his chest, but I dare not voice any concerns on the matter.

"You're not getting warm fast enough," Raffe frets. "It's the stone, isn't it? The cold stone. Here, I'll fix it."

His grip around me adjusts wholly, shifting to something more durable. I suppose I sound like a surprised cat as he lifts me from the stone's surface, tugging me onto his lap instead. A true blush flames my cheeks as Raffe gingerly places me on his stomach, positioning my head at his breast. Like the wrapping to a present, he curls both black wings around me, fending off wind and ice alike.

"Better?" Raffe murmurs into my hair, returning his muscular arms to their original position.

"Better," I whisper, blushing furiously against him.

* * *

**Can we get a d'awww. **

**I tried to work in Hugo shouting at them to shut up. I really did. It's his thing – but no matter how many times I wrote and rewrote the argument, it always turned out awkward and bizarre if he had any input whatsoever. **

**In this chapter, I'd like to feature ChillyPeepPenguins! They're an amazing artist that's – would you believe it? – drawn fanart for this measly little fanfiction! You can find her work at .com… I suggest everyone should go check it out!**

**POLL: I haven't asked this question in a while, and it's been giving me nervous fits. How am I doing on characterization – especially those that aren't mine, but for those that are, too?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh **


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**Chapter Nineteen**

"Don't be like that," Hugo chortles scoldingly, waving his mug of coffee to the sky with disapproval. "You and Penryn are cute together, Raffe! If I didn't dislike you quite as much or fear for Penryn's safety the way I do, I would probably ship it!"

My uncle's gaze flickers to Raffe's stormy face. "Hugo," he warns with a deep tone, sipping at his spiced tea distrustfully.

"But you can totally ship them." Grinning like the madman he is, Hugo swivels to face Bryon, beaming from ear to ear. "Like, I can see how that'd be a ship-worthy couple. I mean, they've got the basics down – Raffe is rather large and Penryn is rather small. Everyone thinks that's cute. And there is chemistry – for instance, Raffe is not a testosterone-crazed bloodthirsty lunatic around her. Look at him, munching peacefully at that bagel." Hugo leans back, gulping the last swallow of his black coffee, studying Raffe all the while. "If I wasn't so attached to you, Penryn, I'd say this ship has the potential to become something as beautiful as Audyon in a few thousand years."

"Audyon?" I question in absolute puzzlement, clutching both hands around the warm mug, inhaling the scent of freshly ground coffee blissfully. "What the heck is Audyon?"

Ogden blinks slowly at me, his mouth dropping open. After a few moments of stunned silence, he slams his mug on the ground, sloshing tea over the edges, and runs both hands through his stringy hairs. The old man looks positively distressed by my lack of knowledge.

"What is Audyon?" Hugo gasps. Horror paints his expression into a canvas of dismay. "God, Penryn, get this straight through your head. Audyon is a creature that wasn't born in darkness – rather, quite the opposite, it was gifted with kindness and a swollen heart, but the creature was told from the moment it opened its eyes that it was a monster, and was thrust into the darkness. Audyon is the creature growing there, dwelling there, becoming the shadows and the nightmares of a child's overactive imagination, a creature bowed to the beliefs of others, one that believes everyone but them can change their nature. Bitterness and self-hate is Audyon.

"But then, in the blackness of the night, along comes a star, blinding the creature – such radiance, such beauty, such innocence, such wholehearted goodness the creature had never clapped eyes upon! And his gaze, so used to the darkness of his surroundings, didn't grow accustomed to the star's beauty – each time he glanced at her, again he was blinded, stunned, unable to look away. This light he had been missing for so long, yearning for, praying for, had come to him, and could not even see its own elegance. Audyon is the creature's intense love, the desire to protect her beautiful brilliance against those that wish to snuff out its light, its guardian angel, the one thing to guide it from the darkness it had known and into the day it foretells. Audyon is the beauty of the good man and his wishing star."

"That makes less sense than 'Audyon,'" Raffe chastises skeptically, gnawing off another bite of his tough bagel.

Rolling his eyes, Bryon leans forward. "'Audyon' is the ship-name for my wife and I," he explains, setting his empty mug on the dirt, rubbing his hands together for additional warmth.

I start, spilling a bit of coffee over the lip of my mug. It burns against my skin, but it's hardly noticeable above my violent surprise. "You're _married?_"

Hugo makes a raucous noise in the back of his throat, cutting Bryon's answer off. "Of course he's married, Penryn. Look at him, happy as a golden retriever with a master. He has someone to fight for, and it's adorable. Can't you see it? That look he gets on his face sometimes? Like, 'The entire world may hate me, may turn its arms against me, but my wife loves me, and that's all that matters.'"

Ogden puffs out his chest and mimes slicking back his scraggly hair.

"That, too," Hugo agrees with a jovial nod of his head. "It's not like women would be leaving him alone unless he was married. He is, so all's good, but, damn, Penryn, look at him!" Hugo reaches across the smoldering campfire and shoves the palm of his hand into Bryon's face, meeting a surprisingly little amount of resistance. "He's a sex god. A sex god that adores kids, is a great leader, can take down Raphael over here" – with his other hand, Hugo paws at Raffe's face, meeting much resistance – "and will absolutely worship his partner like a goddess. Come on now. There is so much self-shipping it isn't even funny. Who can blame the girls, though? I walked in on him once, and, trust me, that wang of his?" Hugo whistles.

Bryon grunts in complaint from beneath Hugo's hand. "That's my niece sitting across the way there, and this?" He rubs a massage into Paige's shoulders, relaxing the taut muscles there. "This is also my niece. Do you mind?"

Hugo holds up his hands. "Fine. Fine, fine, fine. Just so you know, Bay's bigger."

I clear my throat loudly, unwilling to hear Hugo boast about his boyfriend's dick. "New topic, how about?"

"We'll just return to the original one," amends Hugo compromisingly, "because you two have still got shit to learn about the Mothership. Because you two have never been around him and his wife. My god, it is the feelsiest feels around – not some shifty dalliance, but love, pure and true. Because Bryon has always felt like he's never amounted to anything his entire life, that's he'll always be wretched, right, but then his wife came along and simply adored him, okay? Because he looks at her and he sees innocence and beauty and purity, and he adores it, reveres it, devotes himself completely to her, alright? Alright? Get it? And when she looks at him, she sees a wounded soldier, a battered leader, a beautiful dragon with a thousand scars making up his rugged armor. When she, the one who believes herself to be nothing more than an airheaded fool, sees all that agony and pain and the beautiful, holy man it's created, she falls in love with him each time she glances at him, and she respects him, adores him like her god – she feels unworthy to be around such a wise, ancient creature. His adoration of her only fuels hers, and vice versa. It's just the cutest ship ever, because there's no lust, just plain and simple adorbs. I swear to God, I can't wait for the reunion."

"What's your wife's name?" I question, eyebrows knitting together. "Will I be able to meet her at the Nephilim town?"

Bryon's munificent, resounding laughter is spiked with pain. "No, I can't say you will be meeting her at the town. I think you two would get along fantastically – on occasion, Paige reminds me of her. Honestly, I think you remind me a bit of her as well – even with her genteel manner, she is an angel."

"A she-angel?" Raffe interprets, disapproval hardening his tone. "That is _very_ thin ice."

"Yes, yes it is," Bryon concedes with a dark chuckle. "I hope you'll understand why I am reluctant to share her name with you, Raphael."

"Names have power," I breathe, voice as fragile as the sea's zephyr.

"Exactly." Approval glows in Bryon's eyes. "And, no offense to you, O Wrath of God, you've got enough power that, should you return to your hierarchy, you could potentially ruin her and every bit of civility she has attempted to construct amongst your chaotic ranks."

"Which wouldn't be advisable," adds Hugo. "Killing any part of Audyon, intentional or unintentional, would set off a whole lot of anger. From all sorts of races, not just Nephilim and she-angels. God, if you were to even maim his wife in any way possible – were to look at her funny, hint as something – you'd be looking at a _real_ World War, with only one axis power for the allies to crush: you."

"I'm not sure we have that much pull," Bryon scolds with a roll of his eyes. "You're just king of fangirls."

Hugo rolls back on his log, laughing exuberantly. "Dude, you have no idea how much the two of you are shipped. You're the beauty and the beast. Everybody is holding their breath, waiting for your reunion. I know I'll be there livestreaming it all."

"Reunion?" Selecting the key word in his words, I turn to Hugo. "What reunion? You mean they're separated?"

Pleas sparkling in his eyes, Hugo tilts his gaze in Bryon's direction, clasping his hands together in a prayer. "Please? Please? Can I fangirl?"

"The proper term is fanboy," Bryon hums, "and knock yourself out."

Hugo snorts and rolls his eyes, sighing in something akin to pity. "Only real men fangirl. I can feel its feelsy wrath upon me."

Pivoting so, once more, our eyes meet, Hugo begins his explanation with wide, sweeping gestures of his hands. "Okay, okay. So they met last time the angels descended, right? It was a lot worse then, imagine twenty years of this chaos. Alright? Okay? It wasn't until five years in they met, and – story for another time, but it was adorable. With ten years to go, they got married, united in holy monogamy, and a she-angel became queen of the Nephilim. The Nephilim couldn't be happier, but story for another time. But the problem still remained – they had to get rid of the angelic bastards. And so, and so, they enlisted the help of the Black Wolf – damn, I remember that guy so clearly, scariest thing ever –"

"Black Wolf?" Raffe inquires.

"Right, you don't know a thing about the Clockwork Angel." Hugo rolls his eyes, as if Raffe's illiteracy is a personal offense. "Penryn knows what I'm talking about. The big, black mutt alongside the Clockwork Angel insignia? That's her lapdog, the Black Wolf. I'm not sure how I feel about the Angel herself, but I do fear her bodyguards. White Wolf and Black Wolf. Because they don't actually have names. Anyway, scary wolf. He showed Bryon how to banish the angels, and offered his assistance in setting the vortex off. But Bryon refused, for better or for worse, and the wolf vanished."

My brow furrows. "A wolf that…?"

"Yep, vanished," Bryon inserts. "Which, might I add, is not easy."

Hugo studies Bryon pensively. "Did you just…?"

"Of course not. Do continue."

"Right." Hugo swallows, shaking his head to focus. "So, under the Black Wolf's instructions, Bryon started all sorts of weird chanting stuff until he was on a direct line with, so they say, God himself. And then he started banishing all the angels in a giant whirlpool thing – Pigeon-Bat, this you know, because you were screeching like a banshee the entire time –"

Hugo breaks off, covering his laughter with a hand. "God, man, you were funny. I swear, it was like –"

"Hugo," Bryon intones, minutely shaking his head. And my uncle is right – Raffe doesn't respond well to his petulant libels.

"Fine, fine. The plan was for this giant vortex thingy to suck all the male angels back into their heaven with its cosmic winds, while the she-angels remained behind – safe from their raping, abusing, and other misogynic slighting. The male angels would be barred in that weird heaven plane, while everything would be sunny down here. But things didn't go according to plan, and, in his wrath, the Black Wolf sucked up everything there was to suck – she-angels and he-angels alike. Even one poor Seraphim, he definitely didn't return… but focus. Brace yourselves, this is where it gets feelsy. So, as everyone was being sucked into this vortex thing and Pigeon-Bat was –" He snickers into his palm, composing himself after a moment of weakness. "Anyway, as this unnamed wife started to get swept up by the storm and, oh, man, I remember it. Every creature was watching them, every pair of eyes – wait, no, Pigeon-Bat was –"

"Hugo," Bryon murmurs, "you're going to tick him off."

"He's always ticked off," Hugo complains, gesturing to Raffe's scowl. Hastily, he adds, "But I'll do what I can as I continue the story that you keep interrupting. Maybe there's a purpose to that. If you need to go take a walk around, feel free. I'll wait."

"Hugo," Bryon groans, rubbing his face with his hands.

"Alright, okay, _fine_. Anyway, so, there they were. So romantic – so beautiful. Bryon had his arms ferociously wrapped around her, clutching her with all the power in the world – the might of the dragon, he held her with. But his strength wasn't enough for her – instead of tying her to the earth, he began to go with her, his feet sliding, his cloak flapping in the wind. People were screaming at him to let go – we all knew that he wouldn't last half a second in the angelic domain, that he'd be slaughtered in their baffled rage. But he didn't care. And we heard him shouting that, over the wind, shouting it over and over again – that he didn't care, that he didn't want to be without her. And we all saw that it wasn't him who'd released Au – uh, his wife. She slammed her fists against his chest, kicked at him, smashed her wings against his skull so he'd let go, just for a moment. She was the last angel, female or male, to disappear, leaving behind a broken shell of a man."

"That true?" I whisper, staring at Bryon with eyes probing for answers.

"Every bit of it," he chuckles darkly, gazing into the smoldering ruins of a fire. "Although I'm not even sure that I was a 'broken shell'. Much, much worse. I was without a light. My, I sound pathetic. But even today, it's only the thought that someday, I might behold her once more that keeps me going." His voice strains more, tightening considerably. "I'm still a bit of a broken shell, honestly. I miss her so much. But we'll see each other soon, after all these centuries. And then I think I'm going to take a nice, long vacation."

"You were even worse back then. God, you were so bad." Hugo whistles under his breath. "I was half-certain you were going to commit suicide, right then and there. Honestly, who can blame you? I'm also halfway sure that if papa Young hadn't been there, you'd be dead meat."

"Sariel has always been there for me," Bryon agrees with a wry smile. "I'm eternally thankful for him."

"You're Sariel's son?" Raffe thunders, abruptly seeming very perturbed. His eyes rake over Bryon's unkempt morning appearance.

Bryon's smile becomes beatific, and he perks considerably, banishing his previous malaise. "Why? Still stingy about the chunk I took out of your arm?"

"Actually, now that you bring it up, yes," Raffe sniffs, "I am miffed about that. It took a very long time to heal. Are you aware of the fact that you're poisonous? And that your bite stings very, very badly?"

"I am, actually." Bryon's smile bares all his teeth. "No need to worry about me chewing on you now – if I sink a tooth into you, you'll be skewered along the length of it."

Raffe studies him up and down. "You're the giant lizard demon, aren't you? How big are you now, exactly? I know you monsters grow all your lives, but I'm not sure just how large you can get. And last time I saw you, you could use a suburb as a sleeping patch."

"I'm actually not all that large. Not by Ogden's standards. But of course, Ogden dwarfs everybody, so it's really depressing to use him as a standard of measurement. So we just don't bring it up very often."

"Oh?" Raffe's gaze slinks to the old man. "And how large are you, Ogden?"

"Dude," Hugo grunts flatly, "he's mute."

* * *

Audiat ties back her hair, combing her fingers through the white curls in a vain attempt to calm their turbulent whorls and cycles. The strawberry glint her hair maintains adds some life to the pale mess of locks, but her albino curls still seem limp and colorless, a poor frame for her face. Sighing in frustration, she releases it once more, letting all the tresses shroud her head once more.

"Having difficulties?" Ariel thrums, coming up from behind her and gently taking Audiat's hair in her hands. "Allow me." In the mirror, Audiat watches as Ariel gently binds back all her curls into a delicately winding braid. "You're the only one I can display feminism around, Audie. I hope you realize that. Because I do braid quite excellently."

"Yes, you do," Audiat laughs, smiling broadly at the archangel. "My fingers don't seem that good with things like that. _Curls_. What nonsense. I like the term 'onion ring demon spawns'."

"Oh, I don't know." Ariel pats Audiat's head twice, sidestepping next to Audiat in the mirror with pursed lips. "I don't have any hair to braid. Of course, such a thought of hairlessness is sinful among all these testosterone-crazed beasts. It has been a turbulent past few centuries, hasn't it, living with these pigs?"

"I've fended off many lusty males," Audiat acknowledges with a laugh like a little bell, "with my awesome ninja skills" – Ariel cocks an eyebrow – "_and_ your help. But not everyone's been so lucky." Her tone hardens, then rises back to its former bright, cheerful cadence. "We'll be better now, I'm sure of it. This may be a long war… but it wasn't so unpleasant last time, was it?"

"Not so unpleasant?" Ariel snorts rudely, pinching her eyebrows together. "You and I remember last time very different, Audie. But I suppose we had very different experiences. At least Raphael is out of our hair. Should he step out of line, I have no doubt Thea will do the right thing and rid us of his drunken habits. Should Bryon do the impossible and work a change into him, then… well, I'll never trust that bastard, but he'll still be gone for good."

"Don't underestimate Bryon." Audiat, twirling around, her skirt flying out like a blossoming flower. "He's God's man."

"Hon, nobody but you says that." Ariel follows Audiat, clopping at her heels in the awkward human shoes she'd picked up. "Not even Bryon. Why do you cling to the idea that he's such a saint? He's a man. A great man, a man much greater than I will ever be – but just a man."

"Eventually," Audiat replies calmly, fiddling with her collar and smoothing the length of her silky dress, "a man becomes a legend. I know that better than anyone."

* * *

"Don't be afraid of him," Bryon murmurs, the silky folds of his voice warm, inviting. The hard muscle guiding my movements adds security to my stance, but doesn't aid the shakiness of my breathing. "He won't hurt you. Rumbbaa is acting under orders."

"Don't be afraid?" I laugh, my voice breathy and thin as a coloring book page, painted with my fear. "He's massive. Why the hell is he here?"

Guiding my hand with his, Bryon softly strokes the belly hairs of the creature within his reach. "Well, I suppose Daine sent him. We did tell Daisy to send help as soon as she got there, so we could hurry up and make it to a safe-haven. This was probably Daine's best option."

"Daine?" I inquire.

"The leader of the town we're going to. He's like a mayor, with more weight. This wolf, do you remember its type? Remember what I taught you?"

"Angel wolf," I recall, gradually growing more confident, a courage that is soon swiped from me as the beast's muzzle descends to snuff at my arm in sucking gasps.

"Very good," Bryon praises delightedly, tolerant of my skittishness around the creature so much larger than anything I've ever encountered. "You were paying attention. Now, a lot of angel wolves are things you don't want to mess with, but not Rumbbaa here. He's been nicknamed the 'Guardian Angel'. Truly, he's a gentle giant."

"Giant," I reiterate, eyes widening as the wolf continues to approach with his broad, flaring nostrils. "Very, very, giant."

Curiosity shines in those wise eyes of its – each is the size of a mega truck's wheels, each blink slow and peaceful. Thick, fluffy brindled brown fur cloaks the wolf, accompanying the chocolate-and-white dappled wings still shading the light from the entire clearing. His jaws, still dripping with the remnants of saliva, could easily take my body and crush it with a single snap of his teeth. The fuzzy triangular folds making up his four ears twitch and swivel, quivering to face each noise any of us dare make – one pair is slightly lower on his neck than the naturally placed set, and smaller to a trivial margin.

Cautiously, I reach up, straining, rising up to the very tips of my toes like a prima ballerina… and only touch the very tips of his chest hairs.

"He's so big," I whisper in utter awe.

"Like a bus of the wolf world," Hugo agrees, stalking up with his hands behind his back. With a keen eye and a judgmental expression, Hugo studies Rumbbaa, circling the wolf critically. "Scruffy's a good lightweight packer. He can run fast, be fast. Now, mind you, this guy's not pokey, either, but he's far from Scruffy's level. Heavy artillery is what this guy's built for." Twice, he pounds against the wolf's iron shoulder, not sending a quiver through its stance. "Look at that. Made for combat. But instead, he carts people around. Such a pity. He could be put to such use."

"So you expect me to… what?" I question, turning sharply to face Bryon's gaze. "Just hop on his back and ride to God knows where?"

"I'm not sure how much I relish that plan," Raffe comments, joining the conversation with a scowl and a set of crossed arms. "I'm not sure I'm a big fan of the 'angel wolf', either."

"Which is why you'll be escorting Penryn." Bryon smiles warmly, twirling his staff tranquilly in one hand. "Ogden has his artificial wings, too, so he'll be tagging along, but Penryn, if you and Paige could take to the air on Rumbbaa, we'd be snuggled into the nice hotel at Sercem Domu by nightfall. It's quite simple, really."

"And even if the old man has these artificial wings," Raffe snorts, "what about you, Nephilim? And you, Monkey?"

"He knows my name!" gasps Hugo quietly.

Ignoring Hugo, Raffe continues, "You two aren't exactly speed demons down here. How are you going to be able to 'snuggle up' by nightfall, hmm?"

Hugo laughs, sauntering up, straightening his jacket confidently. "True, Bryon isn't exactly the quick type, but a unicorn practically is the definition of speed demon. A speed demon with a serrated blade at its forehead. Plus, Scruffy's, like, a gazillion times faster than Tabitha, and apparently, Bryon needs me to prove that to him for the billionth time."

"Oh, you are so on," Bryon growls with a reproachful glare.

"How, exactly, did you make peace with a unicorn?" Raffe's brow puckers. "Other than, well, _me_, they're the most unpredictable, volatile, fierce creatures that you can possibly encounter. And this one just takes you out for joyrides?"

"Unicorns are evil?" I blurt, glancing incredulously from Raffe to Bryon.

"Yes," answers Raffe in the same heartbeat that Bryon chuckles a hearty rebuttal.

"Tabitha scares me," Bryon admits sheepishly, glancing downwardly with cowardice, "but unicorns aren't evil. Evil isn't the phrasing I'd use. Frightening? Yes, a million times."

"Unicorns are fierce, and oh boy, they're meanies," Hugo cackles gleefully, slapping his hands against his thighs repeatedly, "but they're not evil." His self-inflicted disappointment causes me to roll my eyes. "Being a speed demon and a demon are two entirely different things. Tabitha is a mean, mean girl, but she's just got a need for speed. That being said, Scruffy is so much faster than her, it's not even funny." Hugo hesitates. "Hey, Bryon? Can you, like, not go past the speed of sound? It's not fair, because Scruffy can't do that."

"I detect some faulty logic here," I trumpet. "But you know who's going to beat the two of you?"

Both of their smiles turn to me, wolfish and toothy. "Oh!" Bryon exclaims, rubbing his hands together. "Next thing you know, Ogden's going to sign up for track. What's your contestant, Penryn?"

I crane up, gently rubbing my fingers along the rock-solid muscles forging Rumbbaa's leg, massaging beneath the thick blanket of silky fur. His warm breath cycles over my cheek, curious snuffing of his nose drifting gently over my hair.

"Rumbbaa here," I boast, "is bigger than Scruffy and Tabitha, and faster, I'll bet. He may not be the most slender thing, but his flaps can get him pretty far, I'm willing to say."

Scruffy yips indignantly, trotting over to the larger wolf for the first time. True, there is a frightening difference in stature – Rumbbaa is not twice the size of Scruffy, but rather thrice – but Scruffy does not falter, does not even lay his ears back in the presence of the massive animal. Instead, he growls and woofs a threat at Rumbbaa, baring his little ivory teeth; strange, I'd never thought I'd be calling his fangs tiny, but, in the larger wolf's eyes, they must seem rather pathetic.

Rumbbaa, undaunted by the little wolf, sends a triumphant shiver through his fur. All four ears focus on the pup before him. Enamel gleams from beneath his dripping black lips, each tooth able to puncture Scruffy's skull in a single bite. His dappled feathers flex and scoop the air, forty foot wingspan casting its shadow upon the ground. A thunderous growl rumbles in the pit of his throat, shivering through his neck fur.

Over the hill, a piercing whinny scrapes the sky, a challenge to both of the wolves. At the sound, both Rumbbaa and Scruffy recoil, flattening their ears against their skull and tucking their tails.

"Tabitha, bitches!" Hugo crows. "Oh, this is going to be fun!"

"Eat my dust," Raffe chuckles, baring his black wings to the sky, cocky smile consuming his face.

"You'll be begging for mercy when I'm through with you," Hugo chuckles confidently. "Ogden will be faster than you, with my installations on his artificial wings."

"On the subject of Ogden," Bryon hums thoughtfully, "did anyone else notice him getting a headstart, or was that only me?"

Hugo runs his hands through his hair, anxiety conflating with the thrill of the race in his eyes. "Fuck! Fuckity fuck fuck! Scruffy, saddle up!"

* * *

**Oh, how I enjoy writing for Hugo. **

**Just as an FYI, Bryon's wife is Audiat – and they haven't yet met. **

**So, they're going onto Sercem Domu, travelling by air and land, in a race – but here's a thought, here's a thought. Could it be possible that the Nephilim are already aware of their position? Rumbbaa did appear to them, and it's not like the floating flowers of the previous night were the best of stealth tactics. Besides, wouldn't they like to keep a lazy eye on Raffe?**

**Just out of interest, do I actually have viewers from Croatia, Bangladesh, and Venezuela? Or is that just some weird glitch thing? Shoot me a review, I'm curious.**

**POLL: Scruffy, Rumbbaa, Raffe, Ogden-with-Head-Start, Tabitha. Choose one to win, because I'm too tired to think of anything better.**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	21. Chapter Twenty

**Chapter Twenty**

Almost from the moment he first mounts his silvery steed, Bryon is out of the race without any hope of winning.

True, Rumbbaa, Paige, and I are all soaring high above, too far from the ground to see the unicorn and the dragon, but it doesn't take the new incarnation of Sherlock Holmes to interpret Bryon's desperate screeches to control his horse, and the following sonic boom veering Rumbbaa's otherwise steady flight.

Although I'd initially been startled, both by my uncle's unwillingness to enter such a speed and his very real possibility of beating all of us to Sercem Domu, all my fears are quickly chased off. From the high vantage point of Rumbbaa's back with the sky's arms wrapped around me and the clouds to pillow my fall, I'd been able to delightfully witness the zigzag patterns that Tabitha carves into the earth, darting around like a bullet ricocheting off the inside of a can.

Admittedly, it's probably Hugo that's going faster than all of us, with Raffe at a close second. Down far below, Scruffy's legs pound somewhere hidden in the forest – I'd glimpsed him once, slicing through a meadow like a scalding blade through melted butter. The canopies of the conifers protect him from much spying, but one can only assume he still hurls himself ahead at his master's commands.

Raffe, however, exposed to the gleaming sun, is like a dark hawk, gliding along with both swiftness and grace. The only shadow against the fresh morning blue sky, he sweeps the clouds with his wings, buoying himself with the winds and cupping the day's breath beneath him. Although he might not be able to maintain the charging-bull speed of Scruffy or the mad rampage of Tabitha's stampede, perhaps its slow and steady that wins the race.

After all, "slow and steady" is the last bit of hope that I dare cling onto.

Rumbbaa's ascension had been glorious – I'd bundled his coarse fur against my face, flattened Paige beneath me in an attempt to pin both of us onto the broad wolf's back. Bryon had warned me that, to rise the way he must, Rumbbaa would have to go vertical for a considerable amount of time, and wouldn't be able to dive to catch me like he normally would should I release him. This had worried Raffe to a considerable degree; he flat out refused Bryon's offers to watch me, instead taking off alongside Rumbbaa, twirling around the wolf like a lithe butterfly until Rumbbaa was safely caught in a current, horizontal once more.

However, after the dizzying forces Rumbbaa summoned to lift us higher into the air than I'd ever gone before with Raffe, the wolf had mellowed out, beating his wings when only necessary, content with his slow and steady speed. I'd been originally fascinated by the cold, wet atmosphere, pulling myself up until I was sitting at the wolf's shoulders like a jockey on a stallion, watching open-mouthed as Raffe cut through the gales like the winged predator I know he is.

As it is, no matter how many times I urged him forward, kicked at his sides, pulled his hair, or tried to bat at the wings flapping directly behind me, Rumbbaa would ignore me and continue his slow and steady flight. The awkwardness of having my legs splayed to such a degree so I can at least somewhat grip his thick girth with my thighs is positively dreadful. No longer does the fear of falling plague me, either; Rumbbaa's flight is so serene, I'd have to be doing something foolish to manage and slip off in any way. It's only boredom that grips me now, boredom and a sense of dejection.

I suppose I'll beat Bryon and his speed-of-sound unicorn. That's something.

My eyes trail the unicorn's destructive path as she bounces off the mountains and ridges like a deranged ping-pong ball. Maybe it isn't such an accomplishment.

I rub at Paige's shoulder, releasing my precious viselike grip on Rumbbaa's mane. "Hey, baby," I whisper, trying to heat her chilled flesh with friction, "you feel pretty cold. Are you cold? Do I need Rumbbaa to get you some sort of blanket from someone?"

Although she doesn't respond with words of any type, Paige has her little ways of communicating with me, little things that Bryon has been helping me decrypt and interpret – her eyes shine, her lips perk, and her eyebrows are raised with glee. It's as if it doesn't matter to her that we're in last place, that we're behind Raffe and Hugo and even Ogden, that little bastardly speck on the horizon. She's flying, something she's never truly done before.

It makes sense, the more I think about it. Because of her disability, Paige's never been on any roller coaster other than Elmo's Wide Rides or maybe Snoopy's Fun Land or whatnot, and with those, you just can't really get any sort of thrill factor. With our financial situation, she's never truly been on an airplane, either – not since she was a little, little girl. Of course it would be exhilarating to her to be cavorting amongst the clouds, no matter what place we're in. That brings a spark of life to the austere boredom, bringing a smile to my lips.

"Yeah," I agree, shifting my grip on Rumbbaa's fur so I'm clutching her to my chest for protection against the plummet, "it's wild up here, isn't it? You want me to take your hair out of the ponytail, so you can feel the wind through it?"

The corners of her eyes crinkle, and, very, very slowly, she nods.

"Alright, give me a second." My smile becomes a grimace as Paige turns her back. Removing the pony tail is a two-hand business, and, as it happens, I'm not all too fond of letting go of the wolf as we soar hundreds of feet above the ground, despite Hugo's assurances that Rumbbaa would probably be able to catch me.

Scowling at her hair, I balance carefully, legs squeezing the life out of Rumbbaa as I tussle with the hairband, dragging it as best I can from her greasy mane. Her brown locks fall around her face, quivering delicately in the wind like feathers drifting in a storm. Even as I bury my hands back into Rumbbaa's fur, I can feel the beginning of a smile pull at my lips – it's as if I can tell what she's thinking, as if I can sense her thrilled triumph at being on top of the world.

"Hey, Rumbbaa," I call to the wolf, digging my heels into his shoulders and causing his flight to weave slightly. "Do you mind picking up the pace a bit? I understand we're going to be last, but could we not, like, lose so badly?"

At this, he snorts indignantly, the most response I've received from him since we'd first taken off.

"Yeah, we're losing really badly. At least try to get a little wind pumping, okay? It's cooler that way."

Rumbbaa pauses, as if considering this, then snarls. He beats his wings with new fervor, slamming them against the wind's currents. True, I'm not expecting him to join the Indy 500 anytime soon, but the speed he reaches under such a short notice returns a prick of respect to me; he may not catch up with Hugo and he definitely won't be on Tabitha's level, but there's a solid chance that he'll be able to reach Raffe.

The tremble in reverberating deep in Paige's chest is something Bryon had titled a chuckle, and this particular chuckle seems to be seasoned with delight. An answering growl sounds from Rumbbaa, perhaps a lupine laugh of his own. He beats his wings harder against the wind, beginning a strange up and down motion I've never seen an angel do before. He moves almost like some sort of porpoise with each flap of his wings, bobbing to keep the movement.

"Wow," I admire teasingly. "You do have some guts. But can you catch up to Raffe?"

Rumbbaa growls a guttural acceptance to my challenge, the beats of his wings gaining not only speed but malicious, brawny power. The cool wind above us shoves his muzzle down, but the warm air pocketed beneath his feathers lifts us up. I lean down, cuddling Paige against his mane to conserve the little heat we have between us.

The observations that had lead me to first enter Hugo and Bryon's little race soon make themselves apparent with each flap of his speckled brown wings – like a heavyweight sumo wrestler on the prowl, Rumbbaa rockets towards Raffe with neither stamina nor determination lessening. For each of Rumbbaa's sweeping flaps, Raffe must take three.

Her body pressed tightly against mine, Paige chuckles again, something I could've only felt had we been lying together the way we are – perhaps that is why Bryon prefers to have Paige perched on his shoulders or sleeping on his chest, to monitor her emotions and reactions.

Initially, Raffe is blind to our aerial approach, his predatory gaze trained on the ground below – does the hawk look up, check if it has a shadow? Does the noble eagle? Raffe doesn't, either, though perhaps it is because he is primitively unaware of the danger Rumbbaa could pose should this be a wild situation. When he does notice, he seems to react more with amusement than alarm, even slowing his speed to allow Rumbbaa to approach.

"Look who finally showed up," Raffe jeers, swooping below us, tilting his head up as best he can. "About time you got here. Slow poke wolf for a slow poke monkey."

At this, Rumbbaa flaps slightly harder, his nose extended beyond the farthest reach of Raffe's wings.

"Haven't you ever paid attention to any philosophies?" I discipline, using my own bitter words against him. "'Slow and steady wins the race.'"

Raffe laughs as if I'd made a funny joke. "Bit of emphasis on 'slow and steady', isn't there? This tank isn't going anywhere. Tell you what – I'll stay right here, flapping alongside you, and let you believe for a few seconds that you have a chance to win, and then – I'll come up from behind and show you that slow and steady never works."

"You are a murderer of childhood fables." Despite my hard, callus tone, my lips are spread in a broad grin. "But you're on. Don't exert yourself too badly, alright? Leads to heart problems."

This time, his musical laugh has a deeper, more toothsome cadence to it – spiraling elegantly in the wind with an expert coil of his bat wings, Raffe ducks between the strokes of Rumbbaa to somehow level out above me. "By the time I'm finished, your heart will be so mangled, I might have to place you under constant supervision."

"You'll be catatonic if I get my way," I intone in response, but the awkwardness does remain lodged in my stomach – even if he had meant to threaten me about the race and the race alone, his words do ring remarkably familiar to topics I don't necessarily want to discuss before Paige.

Chuckling again with superior amusement, Raffe flaps once, gliding upwards with the breeze. The wind his leathery wings discard caresses over my face, sending my hair writhing even more wildly. After having risen a considerable distance, Raffe's wings fan out to glide gracefully on the currents – his shadow falls upon me, and, call me crazy if you will, but those shadowed wings almost seem like shields to bode off all harm to come, and there is a certain security in having the top dog's protection.

I bundle Paige closer to my chest at that thought, lost in my mental paradise, swimming in thoughts of warmth and of comfy beds. Clutching at Rumbbaa's neck as he gradually pours on the speed, gaining height in with each stroke of his feathers, I analyze the situation as Raffe sinks below us and we continue to ascend. Though I don't dare comment, I do have an inkling as to what his final plan may happen to be.

As we continue to gain speed with such a gradual increase that I don't notice it all of the time, things come and pass and go. Once, Raffe spots a group of angels circling a ridge in the distance – he'd said they were definitely angels, but not organized in standard military formations, like rogue angels. I'd spotted Scruffy once – loping over a hill, just a little ways beyond us, he'd slinked off into the woods before I could try to even yell at the wolf. We even passed Ogden together, Raffe and I – true, his beautiful silvery black wings are works of art, and the way they sparkle and gleam in the sun even brought grudging awe to Raffe of all people, they weren't built for speed or for racing – perhaps for battle or transportation, but not speed.

I squint at the horizon, focused on a few blurred shapes mottling the countryside, a dapple of beige and caramel in a sea of emerald green. Curiosity builds until I find myself calling out to Raffe. "Hey! What's that thing, up ahead?"

As I lean over Rumbbaa's side to deliver the message, my sweaty hands knot in his fur to secure myself. The air, at this point, is very thin, to the point where I'm concerned about Paige being so high in the sky; she seems to be taking it better than me, but it doesn't console me one hundred percent that even Raffe is flying well below us. I have to yell to grab his attention.

"I don't know for certain," Raffe calls back, soaring slightly higher in the sky, "but it could be our final destination. You know what that means."

The thrill of the challenge dances in my stomach. "You're on. Rumbbaa, do your thing."

Like before, the wolf doesn't differ his habits in the slightest, causing Raffe to laugh. But I only smile, knowing that his snailing and gradual increase in height will reap great rewards. And so, as Raffe grows increasingly competitive, with brazen flaps and exhilarated twirls, I grow calmer and more patient, holding true to the fairytale dictating Rumbbaa's every move – slow and steady wins the race.

And Sercem Domu creeps up on us, its beauty bizarre and foreign to me, especially – I had never seen anything like the stone buildings that the towers and gardens and houses and courtyards and Lord in heaven knows what else. So, to approach from the air, it seems as if I'm descending upon a regal castle bustling with colorful life.

As soon as we grow near enough, winged people are taking to the sky, possibly to greet us, or to get a better vantage point on those they might deem as intruders. Those I can see clearly steal my breath like thieves.

Unlike many of the angels that I've seen, they don't have dull browns and animalistic tawnies and bleak greys. It's almost as if a bunch of parrots from the Amazon had gotten lost and ended up in California – shocking canary yellows, neon greens, sky blue flecked with lilac, vivid sunset oranges, brilliant whites, and of course the classic ruby red splashed with every other color along the primaries.

The winged people try to draw attention to a particular area, something I can see far, far off even without Raffe's help – a narrow rectangular landing pad for all winged creatures, even ones as large as Rumbbaa. And, in a last effort before the plunge, Rumbbaa beats his wings with strength he still summons from somewhere deep within.

"Hold on tight," I whisper to Paige, so softly that there's no way Raffe could hear over the winds as, slowly, Rumbbaa's wings start to fold against his sides. I flatten the two of us as much as I can, gripping the wolf with all my might – legs, arms, hands. For a demented second, I consider even biting the hairs tickling my nose for better leverage.

In the seconds before Rumbbaa dives, I realize that Raffe had the same plan on his mind – and that he has already started to plummet.

But the realization comes too late, and, soon, the violent forces of gravity are whipping my hair up in a whirlwind, bringing tears to my eyes and chilling my bones. My arms feel like lead and my stomach is left behind to mill about in the cloudless sky. The sensation is similar to that of a roller coast, except the only thing latching me onto the car is my own strength – of course, I might be caught if I let go and free-fall, but then again, I might not.

Seconds before he hits the ground, Rumbbaa's wings slam out with tremendous force, jarring my body violently – had I not been prepared for such an action, he could've facilely snapped my neck simply by spreading his wings. As it happens, I nearly snap my tongue off. Blood floods my mouth, a tsunami of the coppery liquid, while I hastily rub at the corners of my lips to be rid of any drool that might've let loose before anyone can take notice of it.

Rumbbaa's wide, sweeping flaps carry us the last fifteen feet to the ground. He lands surprisingly lightly upon the dusty ground and with a mighty sigh, his shoulders relaxing and his wings hanging by his sides – not folded, nor lifted, but merely dangling, feathers dragged in the dirt as if he is so fatigued he cannot even consider their hygiene.

I breathe out shakily, patting his neck in appreciation as Paige and I peel ourselves from his back and shake the numbness from our limbs. "You've done good, boy. Real good."

A slow, sarcastic clap starts. "Good job, Penryn. You failed and you abused an animal in the process. Slow and steady is my new life motto."

I glare at Raffe, swinging one leg over the wolf's neck. "You suck."

"I'm so intimidated." He leans forward, placing his hands on his hips. "And, since you lost, you have to call me sir."

"That was not in the Terms and Conditions!" I chastise, scowling bitterly at him. I slide from the wolf's back, the impact of my feet on the ground causing a considerable amount of dust to spiral from the floor. "We agreed on no such thing!"

"How would you know what's in the Terms and Conditions?" Raffe teases, not even bothering to assist me as I unload Paige from the panting wolf. "Nobody ever checks them out."

"Except you, I'm guessing," I mutter sourly, lacing my fingers through Paige's.

"Exactly. A man must be thorough, you see."

Most likely, I would've responded with something like how a woman is superior – something along those lines. But, at that exact moment, we're ambushed by the citizens of Sercem Domu.

Grinning faces, toothy smiles, sparkling eyes – they chant out praises for either one of us, complimenting the Fallen angel's grace in air and the wolf's celestial strength. They crowd and cluster in massive groups, each talking in the same moment. Some are dressed modernly, others look as if they'd fallen out of some reenactment. Some wear armor, others sundresses and T-shirts. Both the youngest toddler and the oldest crone seem to crowd around us with smiles and greetings, each having something separate and individualized to say; most of their salutations and compliments are lost in the din of the crowd. They reach out, almost as if to touch me. One old lady does touch me, straightening my shirt and scolding me severely to keep a better eye on my clothes. However, even in her ancient silvery eyes, there is not an emotion to be found but mirth and warm welcome.

"My God," shouts one of them with shaggy black hair and a face checkered with acne, "you truly know how to ride a wolf! Tell me, have you done it before? We can ride together!"

"You look like you like lamb," decides one middle-aged woman with a Spanish accent, rosy cheeks, and a warm smile as she approaches Raffe. "Do you want it roasted? Roasted lamb is a favorite of all my children – I make it with garlic and gravy and a secret ingredient. I shall share with you my recipe if you like it."

"Did you see where Tabitha is?" inquires another, this one too with a Spanish accent, his brown eyes probing me. "Bryon may come any moment, and Tabitha tends to nip…"

"Man, lighten up," slurs one with a Mexican accent, pounding on the Hispanic's back. "Let's get a beer together or something."

Empathetically, one girl drops down to her knees before Paige, crying out in pity. "Oh, you poor child! Come with me – my family owns the bakery on the main street, I can convince my father to give you and your sister both some cheese bread, hot from the oven."

"Maybe in a bit," I answer for Paige, drawing my baby girl closer to my side and away from the other female's saccharine glare. "I do love cheese bread."

Before she can answer, she is swept into the crowd once more.

"Tell me," inquires a winged Nephilim with especially vibrant feathers, "how exactly did you do that landing thing, black wings? Can you show me how? Because I know people that can do things like that, but they're always too busy to show me."

"You must eat more!" criticizes the same Spanish woman that had approached Raffe earlier, taking my hand in hers and stroking at it as if I am a pathetic puppy for her to treasure. "Look at you, slender as a twig in on a dead branch! You will break if you do not eat more! You, too, look like you like lamb. I shall make you lamb as well."

"Uh, no, that's seriously not necessary," I begin, but she is lost in the crowd, beaming about her new houseguests.

"Do you mind?" growls Raffe as he jerks a wing from some stranger's stroking.

"No, no," grunts the hippie-styled old man, his gaze still fixed on the leathery folds. "It's just, that color, man, mixed with that texture. It's weird to see that on an angel."

"An angel?" mutters the Spanish boy that had questioned about Tabitha. But before I can truly focus on him, his scathing gaze is lost as a formally dressed old man blabbers on about wondering which hotel we'd like to stay in, and what rooms.

"Bryon, God bless the King, enjoys the courtyard suites," he discusses, patting my forearm with a moist, wrinkled hand. "Now, I'm not sure what you'd prefer, but those are one of our best options if you are anything like him. Of course, the tower rooms are better suited if you've got three in your party, two beds" – his eyes dart questioningly to Raffe – "but, personally, I prefer the courtyard. You have a lovely view of the gardens and the main square."

"Hey, you look cool!" A girl maybe a year older than me punches my arm. "Any kid that can pull off a stunt like that is alright in my book. Come hang out with me sometime, will you?"

"He's Raphael," realizes the Spanish kid, his eyes widening. That sole statement, lost in the sea of speech to anyone else, stands out like a shout to me, but no one seems to pay him any heed. I freeze, studying his face, unsure of what I should do.

Stepping forward, the Hispanic roars, "_He's Raphael!_ Stay back! Get back! _That is Raphael!_"

At first, everyone falls silent, absorbing his words in complete quiet. But the moment they hit, everyone scrabbles backwards as if they'd been shocked by an electric fence encasing Raffe and I, amassing behind the boy. They whisper and murmur to one another, eyes that had not long before been sparkling with jolly intentions now gleaming with the sharp glint of terror. A few fight-type men and women separate from the crowd to stand as a border, but none dare assist the Hispanic, the head of their crusade.

Paige looks up at me with puzzlement, something close to heartbreak gleaming in her eyes – how she'd adored the attention, and now, they've all retreated, called back by fear and distrust. I squeeze her hand consolingly and glare hostilely at the boy heading the pack.

Upon closer inspection, I realize he's not a boy at all, but rather, a well-developed man in his mid twenties, lean like a coyote and muscled like a wolf. He's clad in a dark, leather-sheathed shirt with pockets meant for knives and blades. On his back, the hilts of two dual swords gleam, each going vertical instead of diagonal like I've seen at the movies – perhaps it's better suited for the milky wings he extends to shield more people. His hair is close-cropped and his eyes are the softest shade of chocolate brown.

"And this is the welcoming party I get for winning," Raffe complains, curling his lip and crossing his arms. "Next time, Penryn, you get all the 'glory'. I at least thought that there was going to be lamb."

"I'm still feeding him lamb," the Hispanic lady whispers to the boy. "And his señorita, too – look at her, skinny as a twig. I cannot look at her without wincing. Poor, starved girl."

"Mother," the boy hisses, "not now, please."

"As it so happens," drawls a familiar voice with a familiar cocky tone and a familiar confident stalk, "you won't have to kill either one of them, Emilio. It so happens that Penryn Young – ahem, or shall I say, Penryn _Young_ – is under great protection and it would be extremely unwise to unseat those protecting her. It also so happens that Pigeon-Bat inadvertently saved his ass by befriending her. For whatever reason, we're not killing him, either. Shame. They say he has blue blood, and I'd like to know if that's the case."

"Hugo?" I bark in surprise as he saunters up, smirking all the while. "How did you – do I want to know?"

He rolls his eyes as if my stupidity is simply unbearable to him. "I told you Scruffy's one ability was speed. I mean, the only serious competitor here was Tabitha, and we all know that Tabitha doesn't follow rules." The clumped Nephilim mutter soft agreements, all still shying from Raffe. "It's simple logic, legs can carry you faster and faster and faster because of basic physics and anatomy, right? Especially four legs – those are just epic. But wings? You've got to drift and climb up in the air to get a dive and even then it's risky. You've got to flap, which, technically, doesn't propel you forward so much as it does up. While the two of you were blissfully drifting about up there, Scruffy was loping along at a moderate speed. And he still won."

"Fast dog," approves of someone in the crowd.

Hugo's face is that of someone who'd just been slapped in the face by an utter stranger. "_Excuse_ you." He pivots, akimbo, and waves a finger at the Nephilim. "Call him a dog again and I swear I will unleash my fury. Even God's Wrath will be running for cover. My mutt is a wolf, not some lapdog, thank you." Scruffy pads up, grinning, almost as if his senses alerted him to the subject of the conversation – he licks once up Hugo's face and jumps back, tail thrashing between his legs.

"Excuse Scruffy and I," Hugo amends. "We're going to find a rope somewhere and have an epic game of tug. Don't kill him unless Daine says so, and don't kill her or I'll kill you."

"You heard the man." The Hispanic, Emilio, folds his white wings tightly against his back once more. His eyes still are distrustful on Raffe's, but at least he's not barring his way. "Just be careful. Mother, do you want a lift home so you can start on your lamb?"

"Good son," she praises, landing a wet kiss on her boy's cheek. Emilio smiles with concealed happiness and rolls his eyes amorously.

With rosy cheeks and a broad smile, the rounded lady allows herself to be lifted once more in her son's arms and carried effortlessly back to the town's outskirts. He walks off, waving a halfhearted farewell to those that don't scurry off as well – his smile brushes against my gaze, and, for a second, it almost seems like a warning. But then Emilio is gone as quickly as he'd arrived, swallowed by the tumult of the busy town.

Surprisingly, only a few scuttle off with their tails tucked. True, those that do stay have actions more subdued by the gnawing fright they undoubtedly harbor in their guts after so many centuries of running from Raffe, but they hide it well. They still question him, though more politely. They still offer me places to stay the night and the names of the best restaurants, but they only advise places for one, and shoot me desperate warnings with their eyes the same as Emilio had.

Evidently, they no longer want to lead us any closer to their town – not without Bryon's support. When he does come, though, everything changes.

His laugh is the initial greeting he offers, as thunderous as an angel's pounding voice and as beautiful as a nightingale's sweet midnight melody. The throbbing cadence is almost a personal invitation to some sort of joy and warmth – the affection in the laugh has the same effect on me as it has on the rest of his people.

"Friends!" Bryon cries, twirling his staff in one hand and extending the other for an embrace. "Oh, it has been too long since I have visited a place like this!" Something akin to joyous tears glitter in his eyes, tears that sparkle like stars fallen from the heaven, trapped in the bronze pupils of the man for this glorious moment and this moment solely. His hair is ruffled, his clothes unkempt, and his cloak hanging limply around his feet, but his grin is as heavenly as ever.

People drop everything at the sound of his voice. The group that'd knitted around Raffe and I, the group trained on little inquisitions and polite observations, stampede to him without question nor hesitation, from the youngest to the oldest. Nephilim that'd originally fled from Raffe's presence return, and those that'd never bothered to welcome us at all abandon their crafts and chores to dash to his side, leaving trails of dust behind them. Even a few wolves sprint over with grinning faces. They wrap him in a giant embrace, circling around him like the petals of a rosebud, hugging each other and tightening like a massive cuddle flower.

I laugh at Bryon's delighted expression from the middle of the pack – his height allows him a clear sight over all of their heads. He winks at me once, but he doesn't try to break their embraces, answering each one of their badgering questions and layered statements evenly and with great interests to each one.

"They adore him," I whisper to Raffe, a warm smile somehow creeping its way onto my face. "Look at that. They completely and utterly adore him."

"He has done them many a great favor over the years," concedes Raffe with a nod of his head. "After all, it takes quite a monster to ward me off, doesn't it?"

* * *

**Transition chapters. Don't you just love them? **

**I don't have much to say other than that we've surpassed 200 reviews and 5,500 views in general, which is just incredible – I'm feeling immensely undeserving of all this attention, it's endearing like nothing I've ever known. I love to hear from all of you guys, and it makes me so happy to see results like that!**

**POLL: Alright, so, next chapter, a few more answers will revealed. What are you most curious about? What do you hope might answered in coming time?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

**Chapter Twenty One**

The most extraordinary thing to me is not that my uncle attracts euphoric crowds that choke the narrow alleys and broad streets alike. The most extraordinary thing is not the awe and the raw love sparkling in his subjects' eyes as they reach out with shaking hands to touch his cloak, to feel his skin, to lace their fingers through his. The most extraordinary thing to me is not even that Bryon speaks to each and every Nephilim that speaks to him.

The most extraordinary thing is that he knows them all by name.

"Blake!" he trumpets, eyes flaring with recognition. "Excuse me, Martha, pardon me, Daniel. Those are beautiful earrings, Mrs. Hudson – mind if I have a pair?" He slips through the crowd towards a gangly man with ears slightly too large and a nose slightly too small. "Blake!" he cries again, slapping the man affectionately on the shoulder, illuminating the vast difference margin in height.

The man begins to quiver slightly, eyes as round and as large as quarters. "You know who I am," he breathes.

Bryon's brow furrows, but his warm eyes and steady smile do not falter. "Of course I know who you are. You're Blake Greenley. Your family used to own a nice little antique store in Virginia – you had a crooked front tooth, if I remember it. Now look at you, handsome little devil. Any ladies catch your eye?"

"Actually," he murmurs, bristly mustache twitching as he stands taller, "yes. I have a child. Two years, now. And another on the way."

"That is fantastic!" Bryon cries, candid pride gleaming in his eyes. "Tell me, is it a boy or a girl?"

Blake smiles for the first time, his eyes reflecting Bryon's sparkle. "A girl. We're thinking about naming her either Theophilia after your own mother, Kendra after my wife's mother, or Abigail."

"Abigail," votes Bryon immediately, responding almost the second the word leaves Blake's mouth. For the first time since he'd returned to his people, something alarmingly similar to agony glazes beneath the bronze in his eyes as Bryon studies the man below him. "It was what I was going to name my daughter should I have been able to bear one."

But before I can analyze the situation, Bryon's smile returns and his façade alongside it. "Good luck with raising them, then! The holy Lord in heaven knows that children can be demons at times. Swing by and visit me some time, will you? I'd love to meet your family – you'll know where to find me."

His retreating steps almost hurried, Bryon submerges himself once more into the crowd of admirers, striking up conversations, perhaps to jot away painful memories.

"What was with that?" I murmur to Raffe. Being near him assures that I won't have quite as much of a crowd as Bryon – they all welcome him and smile, but there is unspoken wariness in their eyes and a sort of message they pass around without speech: keep your distance, watch him, don't let him out of your sight.

Raffe glances at me incredulously. "Look at him, Penryn. He's a family man. He probably wanted children, probably wanted a family of his own, wanted to be the one that little squalling potato things –"

"Babies," I insert.

"– called father. But she-angels are barren. They can't produce children, no matter what they do, no matter how hard they 'try'. So, even if he found his true love or whatnot, he had to sacrifice being a father for her, whoever she was. And, for a man like that" – Raffe flicks his hand towards my uncle as he seemingly discusses the weather with an ancient woman with white hair cascading down her back – "it would've been devastating."

"Oh." I simply do not have anything more to say, nothing more to input. As I study the broad set of shoulders and warm smiles he grants twin toddlers that he kneels before to look them in their eyes, I find myself conflicted with both sorrow and pity. "Poor guy. Couldn't he just adopt?"

Raffe studies his surroundings. "I think he did. I think he adopted a species."

Out of lack of proficient things to respond with, I settle with another, "Oh."

Bryon soon attracts my attention, though, with quite a different focus on events. He turns his eyes up to one of the apartments, to where a girl hangs over a balcony and waves with a smile twisting her lips. There is something essentially wrong with his expression as he studies the girl, maybe twelve years of age, as she waves from her perch.

Without a word, Bryon vaults up onto the red-shingled roof topping the blacksmith's home beneath, agilely leaping up until he has two feet planted on the edge of her balcony.

Brow furrowed, I watch as my uncle gingerly takes her forearm in one hand. The girl starts to quiver, though whether it's from excitement, fear, or embarrassment, I can't tell. Her eyes fly down to her feet. Eventually, Bryon is through studying the inside of her wrist, and meets the quivering girl's eyes.

Her wrists. There's only one thing that could be on her wrists to catch Bryon's attention so avidly. My heart pulls in sympathy.

"Why are you doing this, Alex?" I can hear my uncle question, his voice soft. "You are beautiful, you are young. Why on earth are you doing this?"

She starts to sob and whispers something that none of us can hear. A silence has fallen over the people, and they clutch at each other with pity in their eyes. Bryon, however, does nothing more than wrap his arms around her.

"They're wrong," I hear him tell her with a firm tone of voice. He picks her up with one hand, clutching her thin body to his chest. Her slender arms twine around his neck, and she buries her head in the crook of his neck, sobbing even louder. Releasing the balcony, he jumps down without hesitation, landing on the alley floor without rocking the girl in the slightest. He strokes her hair with a spare hand, but continues to greet everyone and everything with the same heartiness.

"Wow," I whisper to Raffe. "He's amazing."

"I don't understand," he murmurs back, his confusion visible in the gleam of his eyes.

"She was cutting herself." I shrug. "Somehow, he noticed, and then leapt up there to console her. That's pretty amazing. I wish he'd been around for like, all of my childhood."

That captures Raffe's attention – he shoots me a sharp, inquisitive glance, but he doesn't ask anything. All he does is brush my shoulder with his.

The street we trot down is bordered with high apartment buildings with ornate balconies carved out of the orangey beige stone; tumbling leafy vines cascade from the iron-wrought sidings of the balconies, exotic red flowers blooming all the way down to the ground. Flags hang from building to building, each colored vibrantly and inked with individual navy blue swirls staining the surface. Along the sides of the streets, fragrant bakeries and restaurants thrive, alongside markets and novelty shops, topped by the apartments above. On the outskirts of town, actual houses with green lawns and flourishing gardens had existed, for families and those wishing to live further from the busy sprawl of streets. But here, color and life blossom everywhere – those with wings dart through the flags and twirl through the narrow alleys. The broad streets are compiled with various bazaars and artists all advertising and selling products for remarkable prices. Live music echoes off the sides of the stone as the Nephilim sing various merry tunes to their leader as he passes. People wave from their shops, drape him in flower wreaths, dab his forehead in case he may sweat, and watch with large, loving eyes from the balconies as he passes – and Bryon does the same to each of them.

This entire setting is alien to me, and, evidently, to Raffe, too. They are loud and polite in the same heartbeat, draping flower necklaces over Paige and I as well as my uncle – they offer pastries and other munchies for us to taste. They smile and beckon and compliment and dance. Overall, there is a sense of happiness that seems highly contagious – Paige smiles at everyone and waves with pudgy hands. I find myself grinning as well, shaking hands and learning names, far too many for me to recall, but grinning all the same. Only Raffe seems to be immune to their benevolence, his arms crossed over his chest and his narrowed eyes analyzing his situation like a general before battle.

As we enter the main square, there's an immense change in atmosphere. The main square is broad and plated in ornamental tiles beneath our feet, each marble slab swirling with nature's art. Down the middle of the plaza, to cut the crowds into two sections, there is a long line of gorgeous statues, marvelous vibrant gardens, and fountains spewing crystalline waters. There are no shops here – at least, not the traditional types. Aside from the opening we've approached through, a castle-like building wraps around the square – a clean-cut set of stairs leads up to massive wooden doors and a walkway along the walls protected by intricate arches. Beyond the main courtyard, two towers soar, both with aerial life swirling around the pillars and flags dancing in the wind.

On the top of the stairs, Scruffy lounges, heaving great pants and grinning at the approaching crowd and the din of praise. Propped up in one of the arches, Hugo sits with his laptop on his lap, not even registering the Nephilim with more of a glance in their direction.

"This place is beautiful," I murmur.

"Isn't it just?" sighs a random teenager, her eyes roving over the stonework with appreciation.

"We need to catch up with your uncle," Raffe instructs, pushing through the crowd rather forcefully, causing more than one Nephilim to stare at him with alarm. They all them seem wounded that he should bat them aside without so much as a glance in their direction – of course, they don't think about how Raffe's warriors probably need to be treated in such a coarse manner, that he needs to shove them aside.

I smile apologetically at the indignant Nephilim Raffe pushes aside, closing both hands around Paige's shoulder. "Excuse me, can we get through?"

Their dislike for Raffe vanishes with a word from me, and they hurriedly move aside, smiling in turn with open affection. I cleave the crowd with a quarry, whereas Raffe cuts through them whipping up tempests of dislike.

Bryon bids farewell to his subjects as he begins to climb the staircase, still holding the frail child in his arms. He informs them that he'll be present in the square tonight and invites them all to join him, climbing the stairs all the while. Waving and grinning, he disappears beneath the shadows of the archway. Hugo swings his legs down, and disappears beneath the shadows as well.

Following Raffe, I waggle my fingers in an awkward goodbye as well, smiling fragilely. Paige swings her arm back and forth, grinning as wide as she can. Everyone calls out to us, wishing us good luck calling us by name, and tearing up as they start to trickle from the plaza.

Quickly, though, before I am snagged into another conversation with another excited Nephilim, I scurry after Raffe, following him through the big wooden doors.

"Right, so, Bryon's off consoling that girl he has," Hugo drawls as he shoves the doors apart, ramming his shoulder into the wood. His eyes are distracted, distant, carried somewhere else. "He'll join us in a bit. For the time being, though, we need to meet up with Daine – he's a cool guy, should tell us everything there is to know."

"Alright," I accept, tailing him through the doors, leading Paige gingerly. "And Daine – this is his house? Or his castle?"

"He lives here," Hugo chuckles, "but it's not his."

The room we enter looks like any old room you'd expect to see in a place such as this, with no more secrets hidden for me to uncover. A lush carpet, a roaring fireplace at the end of the hall to heat the stone, beautiful stained glass windows bleeding color into the room, and a soaring ceiling. Around one bend, a tall man with a child clutching his leg limps in.

His skin is pale, his cheekbones are prominent, and his short blonde hair is curbed. The smile pulling at his lips are warm, almost warm enough to melt his icy blue eyes. He laughs throatily, dragging a small boy around on his leg as he approaches.

"Alright, Mako," the man chuckles with a gravelly voice, leaning down to where the six-year-old boy is clinging to his leg, "maybe you'd better go find your brother. Last time I checked, he was getting into the cookie bowl…"

"Without me?" the boy shrieks, recoiling from his father's legs. Blinking in horror, he speeds off, legs moving too fast for his body. The man watches him go with an amused smile.

"Be careful!" he scolds. "Don't let your mother catch you! You'll never be allowed to eat another cookie again!"

"Don't worry!" The boy's voice echoes down the hall, captured by the cool stones and reflected back to my ears. "I won't!"

"He's grown," remarks Hugo, crossing his arms over his chest. "Of course, I haven't seen him since he was a veined moist thing, but he's still grown. And how's the other one – Barf or whatnot?"

The man's bright smile falls into a flat line of general dislike. "Halt. His name is Halt."

"Oh." Hugo blinks. "I thought… oh. Sorry. Anyway, this is PPP."

Again, the man blankly stares at Hugo, not an ounce of comprehension on his face.

Sighing in annoyance, Hugo gestures elaborately to the three of us. "Penryn. Paige. Pigeon-Bat. PPP. Or, if you're really specific, PPPB. But, you know, I'm not, so –"

"Is everything alright?" the man inquires with a scrunched brow, studying Hugo with concern. "You don't seem like yourself. Tense, uptight – are you looking for Bay? He's upstairs, you know. In the tower. Waiting for you."

"He is?" Hugo perks up considerably, squaring his shoulders – the man's words seem to repair the irritation and the belligerence he'd been feeling before, replacing the bitter emotions with the more familiar playful attitude of the Hugo we all know. "Oh, God, that motherfucker has a lot of explaining to do!"

The man casts a glance down the hallway his son had retreated down. "Please, Hugo, no cussing. Now, why don't you introduce me formally to your guests?" He smiles at us all with a distant affection, his expression friendly but stern, as a leader's should be.

"Oh, right." Hugo steps aside and drops to one knee, splaying his hands wide over our awkward grouping with a game show host's flair. "This… is… P… P… P…! On the far right we have Pigeon-Bat, sometimes known by Raphael, and Raffe, too, but only his most intimate 'friends' are allowed to call him that! To the left of him we have Penryn, the tallish scrawnyish girl with hair that has great potential. She's okay, she's cool, and she's defensive enough of PB to get in mud fights for him. Beneath Penryn is Paige – we need you to take a look at this little doll, because she's got a helluva lot of stitches!"

"Right," sighs the man, his eyes narrowing considerably. "Penryn, it's a delight to meet you, good job working with Obi – you are a fine warrior, but if you desire, I can arrange sword lessons with some of my top warriors."

He steps forward and shakes my hand with a firm, formal grip. Hesitantly, I smile up at him.

"I look forward to knowing you better. And you, Raphael" – Daine's gaze darkens, and he crosses his arms over his chest. "No trouble in my town, you hear? You are allowed to spend the night beneath my roof because I say so, you are allowed to eat my food because I say so, and you are allowed to fly around with those thorny little wings of yours because I say so. One little surly move towards any of my Nephilim, any hint of a hint that Bryon is wrong and you're the monster I'm still pretty sure you are, and I shall make it so that you never harm another of my brethren again. I do not have any room for your errors. Are we understood?"

Both of Raffe's eyebrows shoot up. "Who are you, exactly?" he interrogates coolly, gazing down at the slightly shorter man with disdain.

"Your superior," the man answers with his same neutral, controlled tone. "Tell me, Raphael, will there be a problem with this?"

Raffe tilts his head to one side, and is silent for a long, long time. Paige glances up at me with a question in her eyes, but, in recognizing that I have no answer, she turns her imploring gaze to Raffe.

"No. No, not at all." Raffe grinds his teeth, and I can see how much he hates this – to see a Nephilim, one of the creatures he has viewed as his lesser for the whole of his years, to appoint itself his superior and abase him to a level humiliatingly low, and for him to have to obey its decree. I know he'd rather lose a finger than admit himself inferior to anyone, rather lose a hand than sacrifice his pride – to have to accept the superiority of one he's so long despised in order to retrieve his wings, I cannot help but feel empathetic.

"Good. Now." Daine's expression softens marginally as the man turns back to me. "Sorry to interrupt in the middle of our conversation, Penryn, but you travel with unsavory companions. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Daine Geros, and I'm in charge around here. I'm also a doctor, and, before we place a stamp of approval on whatever plan you have in place to fortify your sister's health, I want to look her over, in case there's a chance we might be able to do something from the comforts of home. Is that alright?"

"Uh." I clench my hand tighter on Paige's shoulder. Throughout Daine's speech, she'd clung tighter and tighter to me, evidently not eager to be back in a surgeon's hands. I hug her tighter, studying the stitches up and down before making a final announcement. "Yeah, I guess so. But… not right away. She needs to adjust and get a good night's sleep before anything else."

"Of course." Daine nods civilly, his expression one of gentlemanly respect. "I don't have set time, but today would be difficult to squeeze in, considering the hours of sunlight slip further and further from us. Besides, the King wishes me to brief him on everything he's missed."

"Yes, that would be amiable." Closing the doors we'd left ajar behind him, Bryon strides up, staff clacking on stone and cloak swishing behind him. "Good to see that you get along well with my niece, Daine. How are the children?"

Daine's eyes dart to me quickly, verifying Bryon's words. "They're fine," he at last says with a smile. "Mako and Halt are both natural born athletes, and the new one on its way is a kicker. She's giving my wife heck for it."

"Good!" Bryon crows. "Ah, I mean, it's good that she's strong. My apologies to your wife. How is she, specifically?"

"Very good, thank you for asking." The impassive ice forming a shield around the doctor seems to warm beneath Bryon's questions, as if my uncle's concern for his family's wellbeing is hitting a few of the right notes. "The little one is giving her aches and pains, but hopefully, she'll be enough of a fighter to survive this destruction when she's older. Almost as tough as your… _niece_…?" Once more, his eyes dart to me, gaze holding a question.

Bryon chuckles. He seems to swell with pride upon Daine's mention of me, his tone growing lofty. "Penryn is as tough as they come, my friend – aim high, but not for the impossible."

"Stop it," I scold. "I am pretty tough, but not tough as they come."

"Tough and latently modest." Praise gleams in the doctor's eyes as he nods slowly. "Good. We'll need people like you, Ms. Young. Now, I advise we not dilly-dally any longer; there are threats that you and I, Bryon, need to address, as well as some personal interests you have professed. Shall we continue to the sitting room?"

Bryon nods grimly, his face abruptly as stern as Daine's. "Right. Lead the way."

My uncle follows Daine by a half-step, on his heels. Raffe attempts to tail him, but Hugo butts in with a feisty glance behind him – his cold glare seems to hold a warning, a reminder that Raffe needs to check himself for any guile and remember his placement as a guest.

I suppose, in a way, I'm glad that Hugo's reminding Raffe before we enter the official business Daine seems to be conducting, in case he might uncover news that does not bode well with the archangel. But I wish he could do it in a less provoking way.

Numbly, I follow Raffe, guiding Paige with each step. Though I am transfixed with our eerily beautiful surroundings and the grandiose decorating, I find myself more entertained spotting all the nooks and crannies I could hide Paige should things go south, drawing out the best escape plans, figuring where exactly the armory might be hidden in this massive fortification.

I also study the swish and sway of my uncle's cloak as it dances over the stone. There is something fundamentally different in how he walks here, the position at which he holds his head, and the brunt power in his voice; for the first time, Bryon is acting like a king. A regal king, one that clearly belongs in an environment of castles and kingdoms. True, his genteel manner has not deserted him, nor has the kind sparkle in his eyes fled, they are both merely subdued, put aside for other, calmer times.

"Make yourself comfy," Daine invites, stopping abruptly to wave us into a lightly colored room. My thoughts are wrenched savagely back to the present.

The sitting room is a pleasant place, designed like an average family living room, I suppose – the roaring fire cackles at us as we enter, nipping experimentally at the metal grate holding it back. A flat screen TV hanging over the fireplace reflects the flames' gleam. Furniture is placed strategically around the TV, providing a comfortable view from all angles. Toys litter the hardwood floor, and I know from experience that treading on any one of those little Legos without shoes is suicide.

Hugo collapses on one of the faux leather couches, reclining down its length, despite Bryon's reprimanding glare. "Alright, Penryn, Pigeon-Bat, you can get comfy. Daine won't mind, he's a best friend to all of us."

With all honesty, Daine doesn't truly seem to mind. He collapses on an armchair and snatches up a remote, powering up the big flat screen without a second glance towards Hugo. However, I take Paige and me to sit on the very edge of the sofa facing the TV in hopes that we won't take up any more space than we have to. Bryon sits down next to me with a low sigh through his nose, his eyes heavy with the weight of the coming conversation. After an unnoticed glare towards Bryon, Raffe sits on my uncle's opposite side. Unknowingly, my uncle had juxtaposed Raffe and Daine.

"So," Bryon hums, oblivious to the dilemma Hugo so delightfully absorbs, "what have I missed, Daine? What exactly has happened in these days I've been absent?"

"A lot." Daine shakes his head wearily. "I've been arranging things while you've been wandering, and there are many things for you answer to. The Seraphim are eager to join a side of the war, but they're not completely sold yet on your strategies – they don't want to send the she-angels back this time, hearing about their tragedies."

"Neither do I," Bryon grunts, tilting his head in understanding, watching as the TV screen boots up. "Alright, that's a good place to start. When does Lord Makiel wish to discuss arrangements, and what are some of the arrangements he proposed?"

Daine shrugs. The screen pops up, and he becomes preoccupied navigating to the internet option. "He said very little on what he wants because he's highly suspicious of technology – he only said that he wanted the she-angels and all the Seraphim to be left unmarred by anything you use to dispel the he-angels. Said he'd discuss the specifics with you whenever you returned, but only on his own turf, and only face to face."

"Right." Bryon breathes out slowly. "That is a couple day trek out of the way that I really don't need at the moment. What about Uriel and his mess? Anything new with them?"

Daine sighs, as if Uriel is a genuine annoyance to him. "No, not really. He's just being an ass. Rallying others about how the biblical plagues shot down one of their own – that asshole you slaughtered, Penryn – and about how the Fallen angel called his plague monsters somehow, about how the Fallen angels are preparing to strike with all their might and they must stand tall and firm. I suppose it did look rather realistic, considering Raphael's masked appearance amongst the swarm; unknowingly, you swayed a lot of votes. Which is just what the batch of testosterone-crazed monsters need – a lunatic's fantasies, lodged in their heads. I won't go into the details, but I will say that there'll be a Nephilim Baby Boom in nine months. Idiots, every last one of them."

He casts a glance towards Raffe, as if he's testing the archangel; thankfully, though, Raffe curls his fists tighter but doesn't react.

"Of course, the accusations are infuriating the Fallen angels, and they'll be forced into action before long, either. Bay has been doing what he can to kindle their rage against the angels, to spruce up an alliance with you as much as he can."

Bryon leans into his palm, stroking his temples as if he's developing a headache. "That's dandy. Fine and dandy. And how is Ariel responding to this?"

"It seems like she's trying to double-cross Uriel." Daine tilts his head to one side. "I'm not sure how it'll work out for her in the long run, but things are running smoothly for the time being."

Bryon is silent for an extended period of time, rubbing his forehead. When at last he does speak, the optimism in his voice is eroded by weariness and fatigue. "At least he isn't accusing you of not doing your job anymore, Raphael. He might even believe that you're deceased."

"He does," Daine verifies with a curt nod of the head. "At least, that's the rumors he's spreading. And he's not pinning it down under treason or anything – he's making you a martyr on purpose, rallying your men to his cause by telling them that you disappeared on a day the Fallen angels were active, that the odds are that you were kidnapped and murdered by the Fallen angels, and that with such a long hiatus, it's unlikely there's any return from you. His plan rests on Archangel Raphael not resurfacing – I don't think he believes you will."

"Better to have surprise on my side," Raffe decides, leaning against the back of the couch, crossing his legs in the triangular fashion men tend to do. "Hugo, is there any way you can spread rumors of my being alive through your technology? Any way you can put the thought on the edge of their minds – fabricate evidence, maybe?"

"Sure." He fishes a sleek phone out of his pocket. "I'll contact Josiah. See if he can do anything about it."

"How –" Raffe bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, dark dribbles of blood that bead over the dusky pink skin of his lip. "I don't need to know. Just get it done."

"What of the human resistance?" Bryon inquires, quickly refocusing. "What do they have to say? What's going on there?"

"General Obidiah has made several requests to speak with you, and he didn't seem very specific about the means. I imagine a Skype call would suffice. However, that was before the she-angels descended."

Bryon's head jolts up, gaze slamming against Daine. "What?" he snaps, the abruptness sharpening his voice.

"I'm trying to find the video," Daine clarifies distractedly, eyes still roaming his TV screen. "Someone filmed it. The she-angels – Ariel, Audiat, Metatron, the likes – descended in small numbers waving a flag of peace, bearing gifts for the humans. Obi and Ariel talked for a while inaudibly, and they both went inside one of their little buildings. That's when the video ends."

"The she-angels are planning to rebel again?" Raffe stiffens. "Did they not see what happened last time? Thousands were killed in their lust for wing space!"

"Of course they're rebelling," Bryon murmurs with a voice that clearly portrays that his mind is elsewhere, focused on more important tasks. He watches the grainy footage Daine had pulled up intently. "They received nothing last time with all their hard work, but they're a hard nut to crack. What a bold move, though! And why? Why approach that tiny group of humans before the large aggregation of known allies?" He shakes his head with frustration. "Ariel, you play a dangerous game…"

I watch as the she-angels first come into the filmer's shot, their beautiful wings batting the air peacefully as they spiral downwards. People shout and cry out with fear, despite the white flag many of them grip and flail about in the air. Three of the larger angels descend, and I assume that they're the three that Daine had mentioned. I know Audiat and Ariel well enough to pick them out easily.

"I think I know why," I admit slowly.

"Do enlighten me," Bryon growls as he kneads his forehead with a fist. "They have completely and utterly dumbfounded me."

"You said the she-angels have their own aerie, correct?" I verify, turning my gaze questioningly to the powerful males listening attentively for my input.

"Yes." Raffe nods slowly. "Yes, they've got one not very far from Uriel and his goons. Why? What does that have to do with – oh." Comprehension dawns upon him, lighting up his eyes.

"I still don't get it," Bryon harrumphs, turning his gaze back and forth between the two of us with a blank expression.

"Obi isn't totally updated on everything going on," I explain. "He's striking out on angel aeries, but I don't think he even thought that not all of them hold hostiles. If he attacked the she-aerie, they might have some casualties or something, have to rebuild or relocate at the very least. It makes sense that Ariel would try to build an alliance before that happened, especially if one of her she-angels caught wind of it."

Hugo pipes up for the first time, his halcyon tones lightening the mood considerably. "See, this is why we should take Penryn everywhere. We're all fucking stupid."

"I wouldn't say that we're all stupid," Bryon chuckles, shooting glances my way in thanks, "but she certainly does have insight. Maybe she'll help us figure out some more of the puzzles undoubtedly awaiting."

Paige leans flaccidly against my shoulder, her tired eyes fluttering, then shutting altogether. She sighs and nuzzles against me. Smiling down at her sleepy face, I wrap an arm around her skinny set of shoulders, pleased to have her so relaxed in my presence.

"There's more on the she-angels, too," Daine adds. "We haven't yet spoken to the Wives – your mother will be here on the morrow. Without them we don't know anything yet about what aeries are going to be obliterated, but we do know that the she-angels in the Seattle aerie are starting to trickle off, like all the other she-angels had in all the other aeries. It's very likely that's where they'll strike next."

"Alright." Bryon focuses on this new development with a scrunched forehead, staring up at the ceiling. "You don't hear very much about the Seattle aerie, nothing ever seems to happen there. Why that aerie?"

"We assume it's for retreating reasons." Daine shrugs. "Everyone is fleeing up into Canada, and an aerie that northwards is putting a dent in a lot of escape plans."

"Why is everyone heading north?" I interrupt, fascinated by the snippet of information. "Is there a resistance up there or something?"

Hugo snorts. "Good guess, but no, actually, there isn't. Thing is, angels can take a lot of cold. They're very good at cold. That is, if they're walking on the ground. If it gets too cold, they can't fly, because their feathers get stiff and ice over whenever they try to go beyond ten feet in the air. That's annoying to them, for obvious reasons, those tenderfoot fuckers."

I blink, stroking Paige's hair from her face to channel my excitement. "How many people know about this? Are you guys spreading the news?"

Raffe's dark, inclement gaze is trained on me, watching my every move. The faintest reminders of his sinuous grace tickle my brain, distracting my thoughts, bringing memories of his fierce beauty in battle. Maybe going to Canada isn't enough for some people.

"As best we can." Daine studies me, his piercing gaze drawing me back to reality. "It's not like you're very trusting nowadays. We've spread the news as best we can. We're now relying on your gossip and such to spread the word further than we could ever reach."

I nod sheepishly. "That's probably a good idea. The more people we get out of angelic reach, the better, you know?"

"Absolutely," Bryon agrees solemnly. "But that matter's already been addressed. Daine, you said there were two things about the she-angels we've yet to discuss. What is the second?"

Daine sighs grouchily, abruptly taking on a very different pose. "This is where things get hairy, Bryon. On your behalf, I had a very colorful debate with Ariel over Skype regarding your inquiries with Wrath of God over here, the elephant in the room."

"Oh?" Bryon perks, childish hope shining in those bronze eyes. "What did she say? Will they heal him?"

"No," Daine sighs, crushing Bryon's optimistic façade beneath his boot. "She was very adamant on the matter, and for good reasons, too. In case you, Raphael, do become a turncoat, she doesn't want anything to do with your return to rank should the she-angels become the subject of a witch hunt. I can't blame them there, I've got half a mind to chase you out of this town myself, Raphael." The two exchange a quick glare, but Daine doesn't dwell long, purposefully provoking Raffe. "She did say, however, that if his wings got reattached, she would aid him in his political straining, providing he vocalized the she-angels' cause and bode no harm to any Nephilim."

"Well, damn." Bryon slams a fist against his knee, startling Paige, before turning a testy glare to Raphael. "I suppose they're giving you all the help you deserve, but it would be so simple if we could just arrange something with them."

"Wait…" I voice the question that seems to be swimming in Raffe's mind as well as mine. "You checked with the she-angels for his wing issue?"

Bryon smiles at me, his weariness still somehow holding a touch of comfort. "Of course I did. It would've made it so much safer if they'd complied, but I suppose I understand Ariel's point of view. That only leaves me with the question of what I'll do with you now, wingless one." He swivels about to Raffe and studies him up and down with a critical gaze.

"Bing, bing, bing, consider that a light bulb doing what a light bulb does best." Hugo swings upright, both feet slamming down on the hardwood floor. His familiar maniacal grin brings a stab of comfort despite every instinct's jibe to flee from such a crazy smile. "The Seraphim are healers, right? Major healers. They'll heal anything, anything at all, from the highest king to the lowest street rat." Hugo's lips twitch. "You might have to kiss some butt, Pigeon-Bat, but there's a chance that if you suck it up, you'll get healed with no strings attached. And, while you're there, Bryon can do his business stuff with Lord Something-iel. Oh, I'm so brilliant."

"Good man!" Bryon praises, grinning broadly. "That'll work, Raffe, if you're willing to sacrifice some of that pride of yours!"

"Really wasn't that big a deal," Hugo snorts. "Give me some Calculus worksheets and I'm show you real smarts."

Heart swelling with hope, I stare beyond Bryon to Raffe, searching for any expression of his. Though impassive, his regal face doesn't seem to be utterly negative. His eyes skate the room, as though he gropes for a defense against the Monkey's plan, but no matter how many times he casts a line, it seems he comes up empty. A smile toying with my lips, I find myself grinning down at Paige, squeezing her shoulders slightly in an imitation of a hug.

"One problem." Raffe's stubborn and somewhat triumphant voice stunts my glee. He leans out until he can see over Bryon and meet my eyes. "Hugo also said that you need specific circumstances to summon Lucius, to have him in your control, Penryn. He also elaborated greatly upon many of the gruesome artifacts and locations needed for the ritual. I'm no expert on Seraphim, but they are pure in their worships of God – there's no Satanists in their midst, that's for sure."

"So?" Hugo's brow furrows. "I'm not seeing a problem here. Just split up and meet somewhere. You know, rendezvous. Know the meaning of the word, Pigeon-Bat?"

I turn to Bryon, who seems to be contemplating the situation with his wise, ancient eyes. "I can't leave Raffe alone. It's out of the question. He'll trip over his own feet and go hurling off a cliff."

Raffe shoots me a dirty look over Bryon's shoulder, eyes holding a promise of further discussion on the matter.

"We're not sure that we require Lucius's assistance with my niece yet," Bryon decrees, his voice firm, adamant against any argument – and with every word of sense, it seems more likely there will be no such disagreements. "True, we haven't found a treatment yet for any of the children that have been abused by the angels, but that doesn't mean we won't. Daine, you are the best doctor in the USA; natural born healer is what you are. I do not wish to confront Lucius if we do not have to. We shall stay for a few days, see what happens. Give us some time to rest, some time to refuel. And then we'll decide what to do."

"Sound advice," Daine approves. He rises from his seat and flicks the remote to turn his TV off. "What does everyone else say?"

"I don't like it," Raffe says flatly, humming with disapproval, "but I can't think of any other idea."

"Doesn't concern me!" Hugo intones, picking at his fingernails.

"I'm saying that I hope I don't have to go to Lucius." I pull Paige onto my lap despite her mewl of protest, wrapping my arms around her. "He seems manipulative, and I don't want to deal with that. If there's any chance you can help my sister, Daine, then I'll take that chance."

Paige squirms in my grip. She worms an arm out of my hold on her, and uses it to clasp Bryon's sleeve tightly. Her head tilts back, her large eyes fixed on Bryon with a heartfelt question, blinking with those long-lashes in something I'd pin down as fright.

Bryon softens like putty. "No, sweetie, there's nothing wrong with you. Nothing at all." With a ginger touch, he tucks a lock of hair behind my sister's ear, clearing her vision. "We're just going to make it so you don't hurt anymore, alright? So that food doesn't taste so nasty. Don't worry about it."

And, with his reassurance, Paige goes limpid in my arms, nestling against me. Her eyelashes quaver and quake as she struggles to stay awake, but she fights a losing battle against the yawns that splay her stitched mouth.

"Look," I state, glancing once at all the men staring expectantly at my sister and I. "She's tired. Honestly, I'm tired, too. The Temple really messed up my clock. I think we'd better turn in before she drops dead on her feet, alright? Tell that Spanish lady that her lamb would've tasted excellent, and tell the Nephilim I'm sorry, but it's probably for the best."

Bryon's the first to smile, the first to nod, the first to stroke Paige's hair from her face in a goodnight gesture. "You won't be missing anything," he assures me, rising from his seat on the couch, extending a hand to help me up. "I'll guide the crazy mob of Nephilim away from the square after they've gathered so they don't bother you. And Carmen, the lady who promised you lamb?"

"I like how we don't even need to discuss who this lady is," Hugo whispers to no one in particular. "It's just automatically Carmen."

"She'll be heartbroken initially, of course, but tomorrow, you'll have yourself a three course meal to make up for any loss of appetite you may have shown her today." Bryon grins. "Mediterranean people are hilarious. I would've stayed in Greece all my life if I could've."

"Oh, okay." I grin with comprehension, supporting Paige's sleepy head against my knee. "It's like in 'My Big Fat Greek Wedding.'"

Bryon's smile falters, expression fading into one of confusion. "I have no idea what that is."

Hugo wails, clawing at his face. "You uncultured swine!" he hisses. "Get out of my sight or I'll come after you!"

Rolling his eyes, Bryon offers his arm out to me in an old-fashioned gentlemanly gesture. "Allow me to show you to your room, Ms. Young. I do hope you'll enjoy your stay here."

* * *

**I've tried to hit all the main points that you guys wanted to see more on where I could work them in – however, I could not work all of them in, and a lot of your inquiries are answered later on.**

**Poor Raffe isn't having a lot of fun; it's not that Daine doesn't have a reason to be prejudiced, but it's not too pleasant for him. Penryn seems to be the only one truly looking out for him... right?**

**POLL: Audiat clearly plays a role in the she-angel ranking system, a high role, one that lands her next to Ariel. Thoughts about exactly what role she plays?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Chapter Twenty Two**

I'm not sure what had happened before or after what I'm shown, but I do know that, when my dream first sparks to life, Bryon and Audiat are in a cave of some sort.

_Audiat is slouched up against the back of the wall, her reddish brown wings both strapped up in brusquely patched splints. Bandages crisscross her body, and her outfit is torn to shreds. Though weariness droops her eyelids to a certain degree, she still studies Bryon with alien distrust. _

_Bryon, on the alternative, is making himself comfortable. With a tranquil glaze coating his bronze eyes, he unfastens the cloak at his neck, proceeding to bundle it and gently set it beside him. _

_"Nice cloak," Audiat comments, her words awkward in the long silence. "I'd like a cloak like that."_

_A smile quirks with Bryon's lips, as if he finds Audiat's fascination amusing. "Good luck finding another one. You can try it on, though, if you'd like."_

_She studies it thoughtfully, as if considering running her hands through the silky brown folds of fabric, but doesn't move from her defensive corner. _

_I cannot help but recall one of my previous dreams, one with Bryon's daring rescue as he swooped in and snatched Audiat from the angel trap. This does not look that long after – and it would explain Audiat's trust issues._

_Bryon, ignoring Audiat once again, removes the battered remnants of a shirt by ripping it off entirely, tearing further through the holes bullets had punched into the back of it. He dangles that in front of his face for a moment, watching the bloody, botched clothing spiral lethargically before him, before throwing it aside as well without a second thought. _

_"I'll need another shirt." Bryon smiles again, his lips twisting in the wry grin I've seen on his face a few times in my days. "I guess I'll be going bare for a while. Pity, it gets cold this high in the mountains at night."_

_Audiat continues to say nothing, her hostility increasing, as if his skin provokes her, frightens her – as if she's learned to defend herself against stripping men. _

_Bryon, looking a little bored with the lack of response, shakes his head in dull pity. He then cranes his neck to the sky, and rolls his shoulder blades. For the first time, I see his back in the gentle cascade of moonlight tumbling from the narrow cave entrance, and my horror is reflected in the sharp inhale of Audiat as she, too, sees the bloody mess of a back Bryon hosts – bullet holes pepper him, more than I'd been lead to believe, oozing sticky red blood down his muscular back. _

_But, as Bryon flexes his shoulder blades and arches his spine backwards, one by one, the bullets fall out, clinking against the stone floor as they topple. He grunts with muffled anguish at each one, eyes squeezed shut, but he doesn't give any more indication he's in pain. After all, Audiat is positioned in such a way that she can't see the agony searing in his bright bronze eyes, can't see the pained grimace consuming his expression, can't even see the teeth slamming deep into his bottom lip and drawing blood. _

_"Damn!" he barks abruptly after the last one plinks out. Sucking up the blood along his lips and smoothing out his expression, he returns to his normal façade without difficulty, as if it is a practiced maneuver. _

_"What's wrong?" Audiat questions, alarm hitting her voice._

_"There's one bullet," he murmurs without inflection, "lodged in neatly between my ribs. It's been there long enough that I can't get it out like I can the other ones. If it stays there, it'll be very difficult to remove."_

_"Oh." Audiat's voice is impassive. "And this is… normal?"_

_Bryon casts a munificent glance in her direction. "Not especially. Don't worry, I'm not going to die. I've got some sort of internal doctor specializing on that; someday, I'll know I'm dying, but now, I know I'm not. I need your help, though, with something you might find a little disgusting."_

_"Don't underestimate me." She tilts her head to one side. "What do you need me to do, Young?"_

_Bryon's eyes twinkle. "Call me Bryon. And I need you to get the bullet out before I heal completely. Dig into my flesh and pull it out."_

_Audiat is silent for a moment. Slowly, elegantly, she straightens from her position, and scoots over to Bryon. "You're right, that is a bit disgusting," she agrees with a brusque tone of voice. "…Which bullet hole is it?"_

_Bryon's broad, calloused hand covers the pale fingers gingerly probing his back, massive hand atop the slender. Gently, he guides her hand until her palm rests over a rather horrific wound in his side. _

_"That one," he informs, glancing back once at her. "Do realize that the wrong move, when you… ah, remove the bullet, can possibly cause me much more pain than the injury itself. You'll be inside of me, quite literally, and you can cause some damage once you're in there. Have you ever done this before?"_

_Audiat shakes her head with a hasty negative. "No. Had it done, but never done it myself."_

_"Alright." Bryon tenses, bracing himself for impact. His fingers curl in on themselves, braced against the skin of his palms. "Anytime now, and you can do your worst."_

_Audiat hesitates, and then slips her long fingers into Bryon's open wound. Her face pulls in sympathy as his entire body shudders with anguish and his head bucks back. Still, though, Bryon remains utterly motionless, despite his fingernails piercing the skin of his palm and the tortured gleam in his eyes. _

_"You aren't very good at this," Bryon grunts, his tone taut. _

_"Almost done," she whispers, pulling her fingers free a tad bit too early. I can see the silver gleam of the butt of the bullet peeking through the glistening red, but Audiat had failed to pull it from his side completely, though. _

_Bryon shudders violently, the aggressive movement shaking the bullet out. It joins its siblings littered on the stone floor with a clink. Sighing heavily, Bryon settles against the wall of the cave, his eyelids fluttering shut. A fountain of blood gushes from the wound Audiat had broadened, streaming down his side to pool at the floor. _

_"You're going to bleed out," Audiat comments dubiously. "You've only got a limited supply of blood."_

_Bryon's lips jerk back in a conciliatory manner, but his eyes do not open. "Actually, I've got all the blood in the world. I'll be fine by morning. But I still won't have a shirt."_

_"Are you some sort of bizarre Fallen angel?" Audiat whispers in puzzlement. She studies him with eyes filled with miscomprehension. "You've got an angel's size, an angel's strength, and, evidently, an angel's durability. But you've got – got – a gentle personality. No angels have that, no he-angels, at least. You're intelligent, another thing he-angels lack." She glances once at his bare back. "You don't even have the shadows of wings. So, what are you? Are you some demented sort Fallen angel?"_

_Bryon chuckles thunderously, settling himself against the stone. "You're clever. I like that. No, Audiat, I have never identified as an angel, nor do I ever plan to."_

_Audiat barely seems to have recognized his words. Her eyes are wide with horror, darting about, and her battered feathers are bristling. "There's someone out there."_

_One of his eyes peel open. "You'd better be pulling my leg."_

_"No." Her eyes intently study the miniscule opening. "I think it's the one group that trapped me earlier, the one that pelted you in the first place." She glances towards the battered shirt he'd discarded. "And I'd bet with all this blood, their hounds tracked us without a problem. We'll be holed up like a rabbit in the middle of a hunt."_

_"Not if I can help it." Shutting both eyes once more, Bryon shifts, hissing once in pain as he jars a wound. "Pass me my staff, please."_

_"You stay put." Bracing herself against the wall with one hand, Audiat stands, her legs wobbling unsteadily. "I'll handle it."_

_Though she carries on despite Bryon's protests, Audiat only makes it a few feet before she collapses with a high-pitched cry of pain, her knees buckling. Bryon launches from his pathetic position against the wall, catching her head before it cracks against the stone. _

_"Stay here," Bryon orders. He rises without difficulty from the ground, hobbles over to retrieve a chunky, unfamiliar staff, and hobbles then in the direction of the exit. His bare, bloody shoulders reflect the starlight with the crimson rivers crossing over his back. _

_Audiat stares after him in frustration as dog bays and hoarse male bellows begin to sound outside. At least she realizes she can't assist him, that she's in too poor a shape to help in any way, but she doesn't look all too pleased about it. _

_First, cries of recognition echo down the cave from inside as the hunters first spot Bryon – but those cries are quickly replaced with howls of pain. The crack of wood against flesh repeatedly sounds in a constant, staccato rhythm, with the startled shouts in perfect harmony. I, like Audiat, much await Bryon's return. _

_At last, when all of the dog barks have faded into the distance and not a human voice cries out in the night, Bryon calls in solace to Audiat. "See? We're all good here."_

_"Did you kill them?" Though Audiat attempts to maintain a shield of indifference, a slight ricochet of horror backs her words. _

_"They'll have bruises in the morning, maybe one with a concussion, but nothing that won't heal," Bryon consoles. "Also, one of them will be missing a shirt. I advise, however, that we get out of here before any more show up." He pokes his head in through the opening. "Do you mind if I carry you again?"_

And, with that final note, I'm whisked off to another dream and another tale, again featuring Bryon and Audiat – except this time, there is a less tense air about them, as if friendship has replaced the awkward distrust. Their forested setting doesn't differ too dramatically from the last time they'd been in contact.

_Biting her lip, Audiat is pressing a ratty cloth to Bryon's shoulder, where another fountain of blood erupts from. Her own bushel of curls raining over her shoulders is splashed with blood, although its origin is unknown. Her delicate wings shade Bryon from the glaring sun above, the feathers filtering just enough golden light through to illuminate the bronze gleam in his eyes. _

_"Rotten bastard," she hisses. "That was a cheap, cheap shot."_

_"No." Bryon starts to cough, hacking violently. He leans over and spits out a massive glob of blood. "It was extraordinarily clever. Which angel was it that stabbed me, exactly?"_

_"Uriel, tricky fleabag," Audiat growls in disgust. Bryon can't see the way her eyebrows are pinched together with explicit concern, can't catch the sparkle of worry dancing in her red eyes, can't even see the tenderness which she presses the cloth against his shoulder. But I can._

_"Not fleabag." Bryon winces, as if she presses slightly too hard, but doesn't allow her to see his expression, either. "Keep an eye on that one – he's got his own agenda, I'll bet. It may not become clear for a very many centuries, but he's got the spark of a mad genius. He knew the dagger he stabbed me with was going to snap. Now that damned blade's lodged itself in my shoulder, just like he anticipated."_

_"I suppose so. I'll keep a lazy eye on him if it pleases you. But for the moment – your shoulder. What should we do? Just stem the bleeding?"_

_Bryon shakes his head slowly back and forth, expression brooding. "No. No, that won't work – it's a long distance from the closest healer, and by then, I'll have patched myself up. It's not pleasant, to have them reopen a healed wound. Do you think you could…?"_

_"Oh." Audiat's expression quavers. "That."_

_Hastily, Bryon says, "If you don't desire, you needn't do it yourself. It is a task that does not require anything but a will of iron, and if you don't think –"_

_"I've done it before," Audiat breaks off, her voice a vague imitation of poorly mimicked indifference. "I can do it again. How deep is it…?"_

_"How far will you have to reach? A single inch. How many inches is the length of the entire blade in my shoulder? Four, I do believe. It hurts like hell. The sooner you get it out, the better."_

_Audiat hesitates still. "Bryon?" Her voice is soft, lilting in a quiet, gentle inquiry. _

_"Yes, Audiat?" His head swivels slightly, the very tips of his hair brushing against her hand on his shoulder. His bronze eyes fasten onto hers, shining with undeniable and passionate concern. _

_"If I don't get it out, what will… will you…?"_

_Bryon chuckles with abrupt relief, his shoulders rippling with the laughter. "I'm not going to die, Audiat. Didn't I tell you once I know when that sort of thing will happen?"_

_Audiat sighs dubiously. "It sounds bogus to me. Okay. I'll do it. Just… I don't know… sit tight, okay?"_

_Bryon tenses slightly, as if preparing himself for pain, but he keeps the muscles around the wound limber. Before, Audiat had seemed oblivious to his subtle exhibitions of pain and nervousness, but now, they seem to leave just as much a mark as his soothing words. _

_With an extended hesitation, she lies her hand on the back of his neck and rubs into the firm tendons there, goading him silently to relax beneath her fingers. Although somewhat stubborn to release his protective tension of muscles, with one sizing glance in Audiat's direction, he goes pliant beneath her. _

_True, Bryon's back is turned, and his expression is beyond the reach of Audiat's vision. But if I can see the difference in posture, the fundamental shift in his bearings, then it is undoubtable that Audiat, who, even at this point in their entwined lives, has been around him longer than I have, can see it as well. _

_Grimacing, Audiat buries her hand into Bryon's shoulder, same as before. Her disgust is almost equal to Bryon's hidden pain – this, he hides better than his affection, as if his experience is greater in such an art. _

_Audiat scowls with repulsion, her fingers working deeper into his flesh. Bryon hisses in his exhale, a gradual release in his tension – it's almost as if he's forcing himself to be calm beneath Audiat's hands. _

_"I got it," Audiat murmurs, her pale eyebrows knitting together. "Hold still. Just a moment more…"_

_Bryon inhales staggeringly, sucking in his breath. Audiat's fingers slowly draw back from his flesh, pulling free the dagger's blade embedded into his shoulder. And, inch by precious inch, her slender fingers remerge, bathed in scarlet and dripping with sticky liquid. _

_Succeeding her hand, the dripping blade slides from his flesh. Bryon starts to grunt and hiss quietly as the final inch emerges, something I don't quite comprehend until I see the end of the blade – the tip of Uriel's dagger is serrated in a sole razor barb, the hook baited with a mess of jiggling red that I can't bring myself to look at. _

_"Dear Lord Almighty," Audiat murmurs, her eyes reflecting the dagger's bloody sheen. _

_"It's not so bad," Bryon guffaws hoarsely, his shoulders shaking in a poor imitation of laughter. "Once, I had a Fallen angel get his wings all wrapped up around me. It was a mess. There were many more barbs, I can assure you, and his hands weren't quite as… soft… as he ripped them from me."_

_Audiat thrusts the blade downwards with an expert flick of her wrist, burying the razor into the dirt at Bryon's feet. "My hands are soft because I don't like hurting you. I don't like hurting anyone. And a Fallen angel will hurt anyone."_

_Bryon's lips quirk. "Do you ever have a strange feeling" – he straightens his shoulders, cracking his neck, and rising to tower above Audiat – "that, through the course of a great adventure, that someone's opinion will change?"_

As they share tentative, cautious smiles, my brain is already slipping into another reality, one with a greater hint of urgency. Instead of peaceful and quiet, their surroundings are chaotic, noisy, and, this time, the ruins of a building. Smoke tangs my dream's nostrils, mixing with the suffocating odor of the dust hanging in the air.

_My uncle's hollow breaths echo off the stone rubble, each inhalation painfully sharp, and each exhalation wet and croaking. One of his legs is brutally mangled, as if it'd been crushed by the rubble encircling him; the other is bent at a cruel angle. His eyes are only visible through a glassy slit in his eyelids, the barest bronze still peeking through his fluttering eyelashes. Sticky crimson blood pumps from a wound in his chest, the dark red sharply contrasting Audiat's pale skin as she tries to stall his bleeding with her own hands. _

_Her voice, higher in pitch and reedy with stress, sounds over the distant din of battle. "Oh, God, oh, God, Bryon. This is too much blood." The hands pressed up against his chest begin to shake, her wings trembling. "What do I do? What do I do?" She begins to pant, hyperventilating. Her eyes roll slightly. "God, Bryon, there's nothing to stem the bleeding! What should I do?"_

_"Deep…" He hacks, blood staining his lips. "Deep breaths. Need… a paper… bag?"_

_"Bryon!" Audiat shrills. "I can keep this under control! How do I stem your bleeding? Or, I don't know, get the shrapnel out of your chest?!" This only sets her off again, into a mad breathing fit. Her expression of utmost panic could potentially break my heart – and, evidently, Bryon feels much the same. _

_"Calm," he huffs, hand groping blindly until it closes around one of hers. He rubs a massage around each of her fingers, the simplest movement bringing relaxation to her breathing. "Reach in. Grab it. Pull out. I'll do the rest."_

_"Reach into your chest?" Audiat breathes; for a short moment, it appears as if she's horrified, as if her nerves are forbidding such a grotesque option. But quickly, she steels herself, squaring her shoulders and stomaching her fear. "Okay. Okay, I've done your back, done your shoulder – now your chest. Okay. With my entire hand, or just fingers?"_

_Bryon moves the one shoulder not sliced to smithereens by shrapnel slightly in a gesture I assume is a shrug. _

_"Right. Okay. Alright." Audiat shakes her head hyperactively, her wings still jittering left and right, their brownish red feathers stirring the debris' dust. "Bryon, what if…" She swallows, lip quivering. "What if I grab something that's not supposed to be grabbed?"_

_The familiar chords of laughter rattle about in Bryon's lungs, turned into more of a cough than a chuckle. "I won't… die. Doesn't feel like it. Not… not now."_

_"Okay." Audiat steels herself, squaring her shoulders and lifting her head. She forms a sort of shovel with her fingers, allowing them to hover over the gaping wound in his chest. "God, we do this way too often. Okay, here I go. Squeeze me if it hurts, alright?" Using her opposite hand, she twines their bloody fingers together. _

_Bryon coughs bitterly as her fingers slip into his flesh and then howls with the most pain I've heard him display yet. Audiat's hand convulses, her lips twisting in an amalgam of disgust and horror, but only heartrending love gleams in her eyes as she watches him thrash and strain against pain that is her own doing. Bryon's hand is tight around hers, but it seems that he cannot funnel all his energy into that contact – not without snapping her fingers, which I cannot believe Bryon would ever make himself do. _

_"I got it," Audiat cries. "I got it!" _

_She wrenches back, and Bryon releases a final bellow of pain as her fingers slip from inside of him. Audiat shakes and shivers like a leaf in the wind, holding the bloody metal shard to her face to inspect the crimson edges and points that'd been buried in Bryon's flesh. In repulsion, she flings it away, tossing it so it lands somewhere amongst the rubble. It hits a shattered stone column and splinters. _

_"Good… good girl," Bryon wheezes. "Good job." _

_Even Bryon's voice cannot rip Audiat from her horrified stupor; it seems to me like she's having a full-on panic attack, but I can't be certain. She surveys both her sticky, dripping fingers and the destruction around her with mute horror. Until this moment, I had not realized that dust-blanketed feathers and wings lay amongst the debris, that alongside the shattered rocks also lay shattered skulls. And, apparently, Audiat had not truly registered it, either. _

_Bryon notices her dismay almost immediately, and both his bruised, bloody hands close around the two of hers. He grunts and attempts to weakly prop himself up, hefting his head from the stone pillow only to let it fall back again with a painful crack. Instead of rising, he studies Audiat with soft bronze eyes, crooning soothing words all the while. _

_"You did a great job, Audiat," he murmurs in a tone much resembling golden honey. "I couldn't have gotten a better treatment from doctors. You had a very steady, soft hand." He draws her gaze by squeezing her hands, and then stares at her with unparalleled and inarguable adoration. "Audiat. You've done brilliantly. The other shards will heal."_

_"This is my home, Bryon." Her voice cracks, and a single tear spills from her eye. "I've lived here for… for… almost seven years. How could they do this to us? What… why are they doing this?"_

_"Oh, Audiat." Bryon tenderly swipes away her tear with both of their hands entwined. "I wish there were words that would make it all better, that would make all the pain go away. But we're at war, love. This is what happens in war. It's why I hate it so."_

_"Then I hate war, too." Her shaky voice carries bitter weight. "This is not a glorious battle or a heroic fight. This is savagery, savagery of the most harrowing kind. To think that my eyes were closed to this behavior for all these years –" Wearily, she cuts off, staring down into my uncle's eyes in a search for consolation. _

_Bryon provides comfort without a single plea. Taking both her hands in one fist, he cups her face, rubbing his thumb rhythmically at her cheek again, the tips of his fingers combing her hair. "You are so wise. Do you know that? You are not only able to see beyond prejudices and stereotypes, you are able to redefine yourself separate from their hooked tethers."_

_Audiat laughs hollowly. The arm propping her up quakes violently with her chuckle, threatening to give way – before it's done unwillingly, though, Audiat lowers herself until she's lying beside Bryon, her head pillowed against his bloody chest, crimson staining the white of her skin. _

_"I'm not wise, Bryon," she mutters as she curls against him, snuggling into the nooks of his body. "I've just come to realize that stereotyping anything, especially love, is the worst possible crime I could ever commit."_

* * *

The first thing I register as my coherence snaps back into my body is that Paige's pocket of warmth in the sheets is missing.

The second thing I register is that she's swinging open the door to a stranger.

I hurl my legs over the bed, scrambling with heated cheeks as my brain desperately scans the bare hotel room for something to throw on over my simple nightdress as Paige opens the door wider and wider. Yelping, I lunge for the fluffy bathrobe as light floods the room, slipping my arms through the sleeves as Paige lifts her hands and waves hello.

Blinking to banish all signs of sleep from my eyes and shoving my mussed hair from my face, I stagger to the open doorway, grabbing Paige's shoulder before looking into the eyes of the man who'd come to pay a visit at this early a time.

His eyes are brown, a chocolaty, warm sort of color – big, ovular, expressive. Everything, from the broad set of shoulders to the muscular legs he hosts, is coiled and poised, like a lynx ready for a small, furry animal to hunt down. Despite the cruelty he seemingly holds himself with, there is a delicate balance in all of his features. I recognize the black leather armored shirt he wears more than his physical characteristics; it cuts off at the shoulders, allowing limpid view of his arms, and has two sword sheathes built into the back of it, nestled between where I know his wings are folded. Additionally, he carries several knives at his thick belt, their silver gleams unhindered by scabbards.

He'd been the Spanish one, the one with the melodic name.

"Uh, hi," I greet, snapping my mouth shut, bundling my robe around me tighter. In vain, I attempt to calm the wildfires raging at my cheeks. "Can I help you?"

The man's eyes are trained on Paige, as they had been ever since I'd stumbled up, and his expression ice cold. "Miss Young, is that your sister?" he rumbles in his exotic accent, voice utterly emotionless.

A heavy stone settles in the pit of my stomach. My grip on Paige's shoulder tightens, and, for a split second, I consider whisking her inside and slamming the door on the Hispanic's face. "It so happens," I concede, my awkward gaze shifting into a warning glare.

Abruptly, a warm yet somewhat distant smile punctures through his chiseled tough façade. Those expressive eyes reveal their true potential and show everything there is to show – and, sinking to one knee, he brings those eyes to my sister's level. Despite his evident change in temperament, my hold on Paige tightens even further – a warrior does not kneel before a little monster.

"Hello," the boy silks, not moving in any way Paige or I could possibly consider threatening. "My name is Emilio. Emilio De La Flor. Who would you be, little Miss Young?"

Paige, who'd shied against my leg at Emilio's descent, seems to burn with curiosity – she steps away from me, ignoring all displays of my distress, and studies the man with intelligent, fascinated eyes. No actual words follow his inquiry, nothing vocal; rather, they seem to communicate with body language harmony. It takes me a fair amount of time to see the relation in movements, the shift of eyes and the squaring of shoulders and bowing of heads.

Paige grins as best she can with the stitching pulling at her lips.

Emilio smiles to the exact same degree as he rises from his crouch.

"You seem to know a lot about how to deal with my sister," I notice suspiciously, still not utterly trusting the strange warrior.

Emilio's warmth spreads to me, as if my sister's charm had melted some of the ice encasing his heart. He lifts a hand for me to shake. "Yes, well, I've dealt with quite a few that the angels had tortured in similar ways. You've got to know how to use your body to communicate."

I study Emilio as I take his outstretched hand, shaking it once with a curt note to it. This new face, new character, is so different from the one I'd seen yesterday, or even the first few seconds of today, and I'm not sure how much I trust that flimsy a personality. Then again, he is undoubtedly a Nephilim, and I believe Bryon would take it well if I made friends. He might even be proud of me.

"Really?" Instead of dwelling on my uncertainties, I pursue a subject I'm more interested with. "There's more kids like Paige?"

His brow wrinkles. "I assume there's more than what this town has to offer. I freed a band of them, right when the program began – of course, at the time, it was just some lunatic's fantasies. I had no idea it would return after I destroyed their lab, or that it would grow." He tilts his head back, glancing at the sun breaking over the tiles of the roofs around us like gold bleeding over the ridge of a mountain. "It's much too early to worry about such troubling thoughts, though. The real reason I'm here is because my mother was devastated that you" – he mimics her tone with amusing accuracy – "_poor skinny little twig_ couldn't eat any of her _delicious and fattening garlic lamb _and had _gone to bed hungry_. Outrageous. So, she made you breakfast."

"Wait, really?" I blink again, wondering if he's merely a mirage conjured up by the sun's glare. "She made breakfast? For us?"

Emilio nods solemnly. He leans down and plucks something from the ground, something that'd been hidden by the doorway's frame: a glass casserole dish, maybe the largest I've ever seen. "Good breakfast, too. She doesn't get up to cook for me, so I scooped a bit out for me – there's still plenty to go around," he adds hastily. "She makes very large quantities, as if she's still feeding our entire family. Anyway, it's good. Good stuff."

"What is it?" I question as I loop my arms around the glass dish, prepared to bear its weight. "Wow, this _is_ heavy!"

"Here." He lifts it from my reach, shaking free my arms. "I'll put it inside for you. Where exactly…? Where exactly do you want it?"

"Uh." My blush returns with full force, burning my cheeks. I pivot out of his way, bundling the robe around me self-consciously. "Uh, right there, on the coffee table. I'll do the rest."

Emilio nods tersely. He slides past me with ease, smiling once down at Paige when he walks by, and sets the glass against the wooden table. After having placed it perfectly on the table, Emilio remove the foil covering to the dish, releasing a sweet, sweet fragrance into the air.

I sniff deeply as Emilio walks back, filling my nose with the scent.

"You like Mama's cooking?" Emilio flashes me a smile. "Smells good, doesn't it? Our house smells like this all the time. I think she does it on purpose, fattening me up like a pig for slaughter." He throws back his head in a chuckle. "She makes you eat until your stomach might burst with happiness and flavors and then scolds you for getting too roundy. Be careful, eating around her."

"What is that?" I whisper, eyes trained on the beautiful dish. Even Paige seems entranced by the fragrance, drifting closer with flaring nostrils.

"That? Scrambled eggs, fresh from the chickens she raises on the roof, with chorizo. Not hot, spicy, tongue-burning Mexican chorizo – Mexicans ruin _everything_ – but good, tasteful, seasoning chorizo. Spanish chorizo. The _good_ chorizo. I think you will enjoy. You, too, little Miss Young."

"Her name is Paige," I murmur, eyes still fixed on the eggs.

"Paige?" Emilio's approval is warm. "What a beautiful name. Paige Young. Hmm." He clears his throat. "Well, goodbye, the two of you. fare well. Do not eat too much, she will scold you for being fat! I hope we meet again, little Paige; I think you'd like my sister. Penryn, I'll meet you by noon in the square."

"Huh?" I turn around with surprise, my eyes wide, like a startled deer facing a predator. "What? Why?"

Emilio casts one glance backwards, his face hardening into the stone mask it'd been before he'd arrived. "I suppose no one's had any chance to tell you, considering your slumber, Bella Durmiente." His white wings flex slightly from their stiff teardrop positions folded on his back, quivering to vanquish and rigidness he may maintain. "Your uncle arranged for me to train you for these short days. Apparently, he doesn't think you swing your sword well enough. How I shall do anything with this amount of time, I am not sure – but we shall have to see, I suppose, what I can do."

Then, without another word, he hops onto the arch, slams out his wings to their full length – a pathetic comparison to Raffe, true, but aweing in its own measure – and glides away, joining the spirals of other Nephilim in the sky.

As I watch him disappear, another figure soon swallows my attention with his dark prowl. Yanking my gaze from Emilio, I watch as Raffe benignly trots towards me, his sideways gaze trained on me and his mouth set in a firm line. The sight of him acting in such a petulant manner banished the gruesome questions Emilio brought up. I bundle the robe tighter over my breasts and comb a hand through my hair.

Smothering a giggle at his poorly concealed approach, I smile at him. "Hey, Raffe," I greet in a fake sugary voice. "Whatcha doing?"

Raffe halts, hesitates, and surrenders the act and adopts another. Crossing his arms over his chest, Raffe studies me. "Trying to locate the origin of that fragrance," he informs. "I do believe it's wafting from inside your hotel room. Tell me, is it Spanish chorizo?"

"Is there really that much of a difference in scents?" I tilt my head to one side. "Huh. Emilio said they were really different, but..."

"Tell me," Raffe insists in too innocent a voice, "was Emilio just here dropping off your breakfast? At this hour? Or did he want anything?"

I roll my eyes, unable to quiet the smile toying with my lips. "Raffe, he was dropping off his mother's cooking. It was far from a sensual experience."

"You never know." Raffe glances over each shoulder. "He is Hispanic. You know what they say about Spanish men. They're the ultimate thieves, because they steal the one thing you can't replace."

"Oh, really." Smirking, I open the door to invite him inside. "You're a man that relies on a lot of stereotypes, aren't you? Let it go, come inside, and have some of my eggs."

His eyes widen slightly as I open the room to him, pupils blowing wide. Something in his composure wavers, something fundamental to his facade. After having studied my room in utter silence, Raffe smiles grimly.

"There's not many ways to personalize these rooms, are there?" He edges backwards still avoiding my gaze. "Rather bland."

Maybe all the men are trying to out-weird each other. I make a mental note that I need more female companions.

"Right," I agree, studying him suspiciously. The light drapes over his shoulders and gleams off his glossy wings, and the sun frames his head in a perfect halo. His blue eyes sparkle, their pallor nearly identical to that of the morning sky behind him. Shaking my head to clear it, I focus on the problem at hand.

"Well, you've found the source of the smell," I congratulate awkwardly. "You want some eggs, or...?"

"No." Raffe shakes his head, a hint of wistful emotions swimming in his eyes. "No, you're not even dressed yet." Black wings shuffling on his back, he hesitates, as if reluctant to abandon me. "I would like to speak to you later on, though, princess."

"I thought we agreed I was the Evil Queen, O lone, sexy Knight in Feathered Armor," I tease, provoking his playful side into action.

"You know, that was a strangely prophetic idea I had there," Raffe hums, crossing his arms and grinning. "Considering you are royalty, what with the Dragon King and all. Maybe you should be an Evil _Princess_."

Princess. He's right. In a strange, roundabout way, I'm a princess.

"Well, I hardly think this princess will need saving from the big, bad dragon," I chuckle. "Looks like the Knight in Feathered Armor is unemployed."

Raffe considers this with a, "Hmm," of deep thought. "Maybe it's not the dragon you need saving from," he husks, leaning closer. The smile pulling at his lips throws my stomach into a washing machine. "Maybe it's something much closer to home."

"Someone's left out the 'Evil' in the title," I note with a wicked grin. "Don't count your chickens before they're hatched. Be sure of the fact that I can make things interesting."

"Don't worry, Your Highness," Raffe drawls, "I'm counting on it."

We grin at one another with the funniest sort of smiles, and, as we stare into each other's eyes, I cannot help but wonder if Raffe feels the same rebelliousness, impulsive and undaunted, the same warmth, sunny and carefree, as if his gaze has opened a happier dimension for me solely, or the same slight undertone of wistfulness, the whisper of a song that shall never be sung on the edge of my conscious, the deep, painful pang in the pit of my stomach, a yearning for something that will never be.

But, before I can complete my evaluation, a mushy slopping noise sounds from behind me, quickly followed by Paige's cry of distress.

I turn on heel, heart pounding for an entirely separate reason. My relief escapes in a heavy sigh as I see that she'd only failed to scoop some of the scrambled eggs onto her little plastic plate. It lies in a quivering pile on the carpet. Paige falls to her knees before the food, possibly a trait she'd picked up from Hugo, who does the same thing when he drops something.

"I'll leave you two to eat," Raffe chuckles. He'd probably witnessed my sister's dilemma, and my alarmed response had amused him. "I'll see you later, my Evil Queen."

I meet his gaze, lips forming the first syllable of a word; I can't finish the word, no matter how hard I may try. Raffe's wings are extending slightly, and, though they are hideous, Raffe was truly meant to have six limbs. A sense of belittlement crushes any reply I might've mustered as he squares his shoulders and glances back. Through my trance, I get the notion his eyes are following Emilio's shape, and, by the dip in his lips, I can tell he's not too fond of the other warrior.

Swinging that dangerous gaze back around to me again, Raffe smiles crookedly. He steps forward, closing the distance between the two of us in one elongated stride. My heart tap-dances in my chest as one of his hands reach to the soft skin of my cheek, his calloused fingers tracing my jawline and combing through my knotted, greasy hair.

"Goodbye," Raffe murmurs, his eyes so close to mine I could trace their shapes with a single finger. My knees feel weak as his lips swoop down to mine.

It is more a fleeting touching of lips than a true kiss; there is none of the passion, the fervor, as there had been at the aerie. If anything, it is a message to all males nearby in Raffe's primal language – it's a warning that I am his, and that I shouldn't be one to meddle with. But that doesn't stop my hand from cautiously cupping his face, nor put any barrier between his warm body and mine.

He is the one to break the sweet union, sighing with reluctance and marginal regret as he draws back, the hand in my hair releasing very, very slowly. Our foreheads are touching, burning at the contact. But even here, surrounded by the docile children of angels and humans, the good, brave soldier sticks by his rules.

Stepping back, I realize I hadn't ever truly known blushing before now – even my reddened cheeks around Emilio are put to shame by the flame lapping at my face. Though I lust to meet Raffe's gaze, to attempt to interpret his emotions and how he regards such contact, but even as I long for such information, I also fear it. I retreat backwards with awkward, shuffling steps.

"Bye, Raffe," I murmur, sneaking one glance up to his face to find that he's beaming at me.

"Goodbye, you bizarre, awkward monkey," Raffe chuckles, shaking his head. Sending my heart on another roller coaster, he leans forward to press a kiss to my forehead before I can escape him entirely, perhaps to console me, perhaps because he likes kissing me; I'll never know, I can't gather the courage to look at him again. The kiss, though, gentle and lingering, gives me a whole new definition of _flustered_.

And, with that, he walks off with a confident, pleased stride. I watch him saunter down the walkway, his hands slung in his pockets, demonic wings constantly bobbing, as if they're moving to the beat of a song only Raffe knows. Watching his apparent content as he strolls about, I can't help but smiling. Perhaps Raffe will find himself better accepted here then he'd originally anticipated, surrounded by positive vibes and smiley angel spawns.

As I watch Raffe, I can't help but notice more than one teenage or college-age boy eyeing him balefully. If Raffe's plan had been to frighten off any potential suitors, I do believe it worked. But if it did succeed, there's no need for him to kiss me again, and Raffe isn't fond of affection at all.

I also can't help but notice my uncle swooping down from out of nowhere and tailing Raffe around the courtyard walkway like a predator stalking the prey, his brown cloak billowing at his feet. Any plan also has its side effects, I suppose, which might mean it's not the end of Operation Evil Princess.

Sighing, I head back inside of the bland hotel room, shutting the door behind me, flustered and confused and content. I trot over to the coffee table, more than ready for those delicious smelling scrambled eggs.

And Emilio is right. There isn't anything like good Spanish chorizo.

* * *

**There is nothing like Spanish chorizo, I will tell you.**

**Or Raffryn fluff. That's good, too.**

**I can't say when my next update will be – I've got a backpacking trip to plan for, to pack for, and it's absorbing most of my time. If you'd like to speed my writing, shoot me more reviews than usual, it usually motivates me – otherwise, I can't promise much.**

**NOTE: No disrespect to Mexican chorizo intended, by the law of God, all sausages are created equal.**

**POLL: Throughout Penryn's dreaming cycle, she glimpsed three different moment in Bryon's and Audiat's shared history, three moments with three very different mindsets from each of them. Thoughts?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Chapter Twenty Three**

"So," I question, sliding down onto the courtyard bench beside Bryon, "why exactly is Emilio tutoring me on proper sword techniques? No offense to your judgment or anything, but there's better stuff I could be doing today. Like, I don't know, learning about this weird world."

Bryon looks up with a warm smile, the hands that'd been tickling a squealing little Nephilim silly pausing against its soft belly scales. The joy in his eyes at our greeting, the way he seems to cajole my arrival, brings a smile to my face as well.

"Penryn!" Bryon cries, cradling the Nephilim against him despite its croons of protest. "We haven't had many chances to talk one on one for far too long! I was actually looking for you, before Belle busied me with her itchy belly." The Nephilim screes affectionately at her name, roiling in his hands.

"Is that Belle?" Curiosity gets the better of me, snuffing out any previous desires of knowledge. "Can you hold her up? What does she look like in the sun?"

Bryon clucks his tongue coaxingly at Belle, rumbling something in a foreign tongue, something that doesn't truly sound like spoken words to me – but there is also the latent knowledge that this is a language of some strange design, perhaps lost in the toils of history. Belle purrs coyly in response, her little talons stretching to the sky like a kitten's weary stretch – and, indeed, she is nearly the size of a kitten, able to fit within the bowl of a teacup.

Bryon's rumbles adopt a harsher note, as if he's scolding her, and, reluctantly, Belle quits rolling around on her back. Like a flash of copper winding up his torso and then along his arm, she flies to life, a lightning-quick snake, perhaps, or a torrent of wind insistent on circling Bryon. She comes to rest at Bryon's uplifted fist, her claws hooked between his enclosed fingers and her long, slender tail draping over his arm, swaying in the breeze. Two wings rise from her back slightly, as if she's sunning them in the light beaming down upon her, allowing each of her feathers to reflect the sun's glare.

Even in such a small size, I can see the qualities that seem to characterize the Nephilim.

She's scaled and dragonic, with the almost stereotypical head and scale structure, but there is also a special unique spice in her mix. Instead of a basic coppery color, her scales are mottled – though all have the metallic sheen of copper, the ones nearer to the top are flecked with brass scales and tipped with snowy white; towards the very top, entire scales are pale as a cloud. Her belly scales are soft and sable-colored. At her nape starts a thick calico mane made of the same elongated scales as Bryon'd had; the only difference in manes is that hers travels all the way down her spine like the spikes on a classic dragon's back. At her shoulders, they broaden out and become the coarse feathers on and around her speckled wings and, further down, the brindled hairs tipping her slender tail. Two curling horns poke through the mane, barely visible through the forest of glimmering mane-scales in copper, bronze, brass, gold, and many in pure, pure white. Her serpentine tail is longer than the size of the rest of her body, the glistening scales tapering into plush hairs that swish with every flick of her tail. Little nostrils flaring and tiny claws gripping Bryon's hand, she leans towards me, large eyes inquisitive.

I don't usually get along fondly with lizards and snakes and other scaly things – they keep their distance and I keep mine, and we get along fine. But there is something absolutely adorable about this particular dragon creature, with its paint-splattered back scales as it stares into my eyes – perhaps it is the curious whistle she lets loose, opening her maw to show a tiny red tongue hosted between toothless pink gums. It could be her small little claws as they reach for me, tiny reptilian hand snagging on the fabric of my shirt's sleeve, the way she studied with fascinated rapture all the while. Or it could be her brilliant, sparkling eyes – one blue as the sky above, the other a mixture of bronze and gold.

"Whoa," I murmur, tilting my head from one side to the other to catch the difference in colors.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" Bryon chuckles. "Some people are saying she's an omen, a gift from the Clockwork Angel herself. I'm not buying it, not in the slightest."

"An omen? Why?"

"Because she was the only one to survive in her home town." Bryon glances sideways at me. "The angels attacked, the archangel leading that particular battalion out of his mind or something. It was a remote town in the middle of Africa, and there wasn't much to be gained by demolishing it. It would've been an easy destruction, honestly, if Belle's mother, whoever she'd been, hadn't been there."

Bryon takes a single finger and strokes between her horns, causing Belle to squeal with pleasure, leaning into his touch.

"The Clockwork Angel is famous for defending all Wives. As best we can figure, she showed up – her signature was even there. Remember the unplanned eclipse towards the beginning of the apocalypse? That was her doing – she only ever seems to arrive when the sun and the moon are together, Hugo could probably give you facts. But the point is she failed to protect the Wife and the only one left surviving was Belle, sitting in the exact center of all the rubble, staring in confusion at dead humans and angels alike."

"What?" My brow furrows; there seems to be fault in this theory, something minor that flunks the test, but with my limited experience in such arts, I am unable to see such things.

"They say she was a white girl," Bryon continues, "so her mother must've fled down to an all-black town to hide from any searchers. Which must mean someone was after her and her child. Brings up questions, of course, as to who is the father of Belle – we can't interrogate Belle, because she refuses to morph into her human shape, but such things are not important. Point is, everyone says that both the Clockwork Angel's appearance and Belle's appearance are a joint omen. The Clockwork Angel signified a new age of destruction and death but then new rebirth and glory at the end of everything, and, so they say, Belle signifies a coming time of peace between enemies long despised."

"Why?" I wonder in utter confusion. "Is it because even though Belle saw all that chaos, she lived through and survived and lived happy ever after or something?"

Bryon chuckles. "No, but that's a good guess. No, people are saying she's a bridge between Raphael and I – and those rumors have become increasingly popular now that he walks amongst Nephilim. They say she's a unit that'll knit us together, and that old enemies will be made friends and harmony will reign. I can see how such a theory is plausible. Look at her." Bryon lifts hand, allowing the light to sparkle off of Belle's scales. "Similar to a dragon, yes? And her wings, speckled with a three white feathers to every copper ratio – similar to Raphael's, correct? One blue eye, one bronze eye." He taps at his own peepers in explanation, nodding. "People say she's the symbol of a new era coming forth."

My brow is furrowed as I analyze the little Nephilim. She's sniffing around Bryon's fist, nosing around his fingers – her muzzle is so tiny, it could fit in a thimble. "What do you say, Bryon?"

"I don't believe in omens," Bryon admits. "I believe in my God, but I do not believe in any omens sent by the Clockwork Angel or otherwise. The burning bush is the only omen I trust in, and its registration as an 'omen' is borderline."

"Does Belle think she's an omen?" I ponder, cautiously extending my index finger towards her.

Belle sniffs at my extended offering, her delicate nostrils tickling around my nail, and then lunges rapidly, her jaws extended as if to snap off the tip of my finger. I recoil hurriedly, clutching my hand against my chest, heart pounding in abrupt terror. Belle hisses in confusion and what seems to be embarrassment, shuffling about anxiously on Bryon's hand.

"It's her greeting," Bryon explains, lifting a finger to demonstrate. Belle hisses playfully at it, head snaking around to face his hand. Her wings fan the sky in futile sweeps as she fends off his pointer finger with brief nibbles. "See? She's friendly. Won't hurt you."

Belle whips her head about to me as Bryon's finger coils back, her bright eyes still questioning me. She treats me demure approach patiently, shuffling her wings and sending shivers through her long scale-hairs. Head craning forward and neck arching with lissome grace, she sniffs at the one finger I have extended towards her.

With a squeal of delight, all of Belle's mane-scales stand on end, her mouth flying open with a joyful grin. She sinks her toothless pinkgums into the soft skin of my finger's pad for a mere second before retracting, like a snake bite lacking fangs. It doesn't even throb, where she nipped me – those tiny gums can't hurt anybody, evidently.

"That wasn't so bad." I smile at Belle. "She's nothing but a sweetheart, is she?"

Bryon's lips quirk with a smile, and his other hand massages down her little body, much to the Nephilim's pleasure. "She is. I'm surprised she isn't shying from your touch – she's not especially fond of many people. In fact, the only ones she really seems to tolerate are the Wives, me, and on occasion, Emilio."

"What is the deal with Emilio, anyway?" I question, my uncle's reference to the dark-haired Hispanic reawakening thoughts sedated by his playful adoration of Belle. "Why did you sign me up for sword lessons or whatnot? I know I can't really swing a sword like a pro, but Pooky Bear takes care of that. It's not like I'm completely helpless, anyway."

Bryon's eyes flash as he sneaks a quick, swiping glance towards me. "Emilio is a true master of the blades. He'd have you fighting like an expert with any sort of blade by the end of the week, I'm sure, and not just by Pooky Bear's command. Personally, I thought you'd want to occupy your time with something productive. Was my theory incorrect?"

I tilt my head to one side, awkwardness making it difficult to swallow. "Well… I'd probably drive myself mad if I didn't have anything to do any other day but today," I confess, watching Belle fondle Bryon's hair instead of meeting his eyes.

"What makes today so different?"

"It's just…" I heave a sigh, reaching out to stroke along Belle's fragile spine. "I don't know, I've been going nonstop for a long time now, and the apocalypse is just grating on my mind and – I guess I just thought that I'd get a bit of a break in this stable, serene little town."

Bryon is silent, mulling over my words with eyes thick with emotion, emotion which only emerges from thousands of years of life, the life he has felt. His honey-sweet gaze is trained on me, the raw power buried there tingly against my skin – I can feel the tickle of its focus drifting across my face. "How long has it been since you've gotten a decent rest, Penryn?"

I shrug. "The best rest I've had since the aerie was probably with the resistance fighters. And there were some limitations there."

He seems to ponder this, staring off at the sky, eyes tracing the pattern of two lovebird Nephilim circling each other. "Evidently, I need to get to know you better." Shaking his head, he sighs, and cradles Belle in front of his face with two hands. "Belle, sweetie, can you go find Emilio and inform him that Penryn's class for today is cancelled? She needs time to rest after her adventures, and there is no better way than touring a beautiful city with her recently united family."

Belle squeaks with acceptance and races off, zigzagging through pedestrian's feet on her journey, while I gawk at my uncle.

"Wait, so you're just… bailing on Emilio?"

Bryon's eyes crinkle with his merry smile. "I know Emilio much better than I know you, it would seem. He'll be pleased to have an afternoon to himself, too. I daresay he might even hunt down some colossal elk and parade around with his killings. He's much that type. But come now." Bryon rises briskly from the bench, his cloak fluttering around his legs. With a wide, cheerful smile, he extends an open palm towards me. "There's much to see, and I imagine you have many questions."

"I suppose." My hand slides into his, and Bryon pulls me to my feet in a quick burst of muscle. "Where do you plan on taking me, can I ask, as we tour this little town?"

"Well," hums Bryon, strolling through the tiled courtyard, waving to friends and smiling strangers, "it's a small place, but there's a lot of interesting stuff that'll fascinate you, and a lot of stuff that still fascinates me. Maybe we'll amble through 'Downtown' to see all the old architecture and street-art. That's wild, what they've done with the blank walls and crumbling old buildings. No matter what order we may proceed in, you need to see the temples – there is beauty there, beauty unlike any of your human churches. And, maybe to end our little session, we can swing by our friend Rumbbaa in the stables – Scruffy stays in Hugo's room, or right by it, but most of the wolves don't have that luxury. What do you say?"

I smile at him and beckon towards the streets. "Lead the way, Bryon."

Bryon beams at his name, eyes sparkling in the sunlight like doubloons. "I hope you'll like it here. It's not like it's your home, or honestly anywhere you've been before, but it's _my_ home, and it's all I've ever known. If you'll let me, I'll show you a whole new way of living."

I hesitate, unsure of how completely I want to devote myself to learning about the world of Nephilim – it is only the recollection that I am, in fact, one of the Nephilim that fuels me to accept Bryon's invitation, and that this reality he unveils may prove to be more secure than the one the humans have constructed from the remains of our shattered civilization.

And Bryon shows me everything he knows.

I take his arm, and he guides me through the crowds. Had I not witnessed the turmoil occurring not far from these tranquil grounds, I would've said that such exuberant people would be impossible to happen upon. The apocalypse had touched everyone but Bryon's Nephilim. And they look up to my uncle as a father – simply by walking beside him, I gain affection, and by being his niece as he claims repeatedly, swelling each time with pride, they adore me as well. I am, in no other words, their princess – strange, exotic foods with spicy or smooth flavors are offered to us as we wander the streets, and people greet us from anywhere. I meet both the star-crossed couple that'd gotten engaged two nights before and the one-legged old man hobbling down the street with many a story to tell. On our trip Downtown, we even pass Ogden – he emerged from his smoking black forge with smoldering clothes and embers riddling his thin, greasy hair, waving ecstatically with a grin spread across his entire face.

Our desultory wanders also provide Bryon plenty of chances to bare his pride of his town, as well. Repetitively, he points out buildings and houses and families and beautifully wild gardens and spits out facts. When we reach Downtown, though, these moments become twice as frequent.

"Oh, smell that, Penryn!" Bryon takes in a huge whiff through his nose, humming with ebullience. "This place is wonderful! Can't you just smell the spices in the air? The cooking shop has been here since when this town was just getting started, you know – I think the Mistress's family ran it originally, to be perfectly honest."

"The Mistress?" My interest peaks as much as it can when the subject is an old cooking ingredients shack. "Who's that?"

Bryon laughs melodically, throwing his head up, attracting the attention of two teenagers sitting on a fence together with intertwined hands. "That's the woman the angel that made this little town famous fell in love with. We don't actually know her name or the name of the angel, and they're mostly just tall tales, but there was an angel and a human that did fall in love around this area, so we're not sure how much is fable and how much is real."

I frown, glancing sideways at him. "You're saying that this wasn't always a Nephilim haven?"

"Everything has a birth, Penryn, and this town's so happened to be an angel and a human. It drew in Nephilim like moths to a lamp."

"So, then, what happened?" I inquire, parrying around a rather gluttonous fellow with eyeliner and a purple mohawk. "Angel and girl fall in love, what happens?"

"Well, that's just the thing." Bryon sighs, dragging his staff along the stone, then abruptly spinning it about in one hand with reckless enthusiasm. "It's quite a tragic tale. It goes vaguely like this: he visits all the time, going to her family's cooking shop because, apparently, he claimed they had the best food in all of heaven. But it was really because he'd fallen for his serving maid, a girl known simply as the Mistress. He was so smitten, he wouldn't have any of heaven's diverse meals over her kind, sparkling eyes. Word got out of that upstairs, and, in fear of having their brother fall and become a Watcher, a bunch of angels descended to hunt down the girl and slaughter her before things became too intimate. They razed the town, and, by the time her angel swooped in to save the day, they'd already murdered her family in front of her. One of his winged buddies had his sword poised over her chest, gripping the front of her blouse, ready to impale her with a strike downwards, but before he could, her angel intervened, and was skewered by his comrade's blade instead. He died in her arms, and her tears fell on his dying face."

After a long pause, it becomes certain that Bryon's not continuing. "What happened to the girl?" I prompt, dipping two of my fingers into a crumbling water fountain.

"That's where all the legends branch out. Some say she joined her lover in death, either killed by the enraged angels or suicide. Others say she lived to a ripe old age but never loved again. A surprisingly large amount of people believe she bore him twins, and that their descendants still live today. One of the most disturbing rumors is that she made a deal with the Devil to talk with him long after death, and that he protects her even now, watching over the town she lived in and guarding it from any more of his scheming brethren."

"That's eerie." I stare at the ground, poignantly wondering if I'll be remembered for hundreds of years to come.

"Uh-huh. A lot of people say that her angel hunts these parts at night, wailing and searching for the angels which betrayed him and killed his lover. Truth be told, the only one ever wandering around here is Rumbbaa on his late-night prowls as he protects the town."

"Super creepy." My eyes linger on the beautifully sculpted buildings and the deteriorating quality of the worn paths and feral gardens. "But hey, if there's any place that such legends would be true, it's this place, right? It's kind of creepy."

"Everywhere that's not painted, definitely," Bryon agrees, grinning at the spired rooftops and wading through people. "I like that Daine hosts those contests and things. A lot of these old buildings are ugly to look at – to have professional street-artists come from all over the place to show their stuff and beautify these empty walls was a genius idea."

"I like that they let kids join in," I add. "It's cute, seeing little stick figures next to the bizarre street-artist-type drawings. I mean, it's not like even all the artists are amazing. The blue deer was just plain awful; of course, that Clockwork Angel thing was _incredible_…"

Bryon smiles, bronze eyes twinkling in the sun. "I can assure you that it won. Beautiful representation, too – incredibly accurate. I've met both White Wolf and Black Wolf, and vaguely can tell the personalities of the two. They don't peacefully soar around each other as most Yin-Yangs will have you believe. They hate one another, they want to rip each other's heart out, that's the very reason they go round and round on an endless chase – their bared teeth and rolling angry eyes portrayed that well."

"I liked the Clockwork Angel," I admit, recalling the beautiful ripple of copper and bronze feathers covering the golden gears in her metal wings. Her hair had been whipped into a storm of its own, covering crucial facial features. "She'd been pretty well-painted, in my opinion. I'd had no clue there were that many shades of brown."

"The Clockwork Angel!" Bryon lets out a long, low breath. "Now, there's a character! Never actually met her – no one has – but there's so many conspiracy theories, I couldn't even begin to summarize them all. Evil, good, harmonious, chaotic. She's always used to represent dawn and dusk, the times between Black and White Wolfs' domains. Some say that the wolves were her two younger sisters that grew bitter. A more popular theory is that they were two lovers, resurrected, naturally, as giant killer wolves by her equal love, and left to fight over her for all eternity. Honestly? Nobody knows what to think of her. She shows up when war is inevitable, when a righteous battle is being lost, or to protect a wife. That's all we've ever seen her, so it leads us to assume very different things. I, for one –" Abruptly, Bryon breaks off. He grabs at my arm, grip firm and shaking slightly. "Penryn, do you see the hat shop, too?"

"What?" Halted jarringly by Bryon's squeezing grip on my bicep, I turn to the building he's staring at reverently. "Yeah, that is a hat shop. 'Uncle Alec's Hat Emporium' – hey, ow!"

"Sorry," Bryon murmurs, releasing my arm, the strange spell gone. Guilt gleams in his eyes as they meet mine. "Did I hurt you? Should we get you a medic?"

"No, nothing that severe," I reassure. Seeing his dubious expression, I add, "It's not even going to bruise, Bryon. You just held me a little too tight over a…" I squint at the faded baby blue letters. "Hat Emporium?"

"Ah, about that," Bryon coughs, blushing slightly. I'd never seen my uncle abashed before – his bronze eyes are trained on the ground, and his feet shuffle. "Well, you see, Audiat had this bizarre fascination with clothing. She'd hoard it – and not in the female shopping way, but simply because it was clothing. Socks, mittens, cloaks – especially cloaks – and dresses fell prey to her. I picked up one of those habits. I, ah, have a hat fetish."

A surprised bout of laughter explodes from my throat. "What?"

"I really, really, like hats, alright?" Bryon glances away from me, crossing his arms like a miserable two-year-old. "Don't laugh at me. I'm sure you've got some hidden weird thing. And honestly, hats are cool. Before I came to you all, I had a marvelous blue-and-black striped hat with a stuffed snake twining around it." He sighs wearily. "But I had to get rid of it, because you can't just walk up to your nemesis in hats like that. The stuffed snake's embers smelled a bit like cinnamon."

"So, you want a new hat?" I interpret, smothering giggles quite poorly.

"Yes, actually, I do. Stop laughing. It's not funny. It's a very serious problem." But he's smiling, grinning down at me with glimmering eyes, delighted with my laughter as much as I am. "You can have a hat, too, if you'd like. It's a Hat _Emporium_ – I'm sure there's plenty of hats to go around."

And, before I know it, I'm browsing through row after row of hat racks, Bryon critiquing every headwear he comes across. The smiley shopkeeper, a suited man in a sequined red robin-hood cap, invited us both in with a smile and a handshake, before waddling off through his labyrinth of hats.

"What do you think about this one?" I lower a snug fedora with a purple band around the width onto my head, striking a pose.

Bryon nearly roars with laughter. "Truth be told, you look like a genderbent Hugo!"

"Ah, no." I gingerly lower the hat back onto its pedestal, wading through more options. "I don't usually wear hats, so –"

"Crime," Bryon spits, his head poking above the hat rack to my left. "You are a criminal."

"Let me finish! I don't usually wear hats, so I don't know what's good on me."

Bryon shoves aside a few spinning racks to come by my side, wearing a goofy baseball cap covered in flowers over his hair. "Well, let's see. I'm looking for a beanie, because I love beanies and beanies love me. So, unless you want to look like you're looking up to your uncle as a role model" – a sense of wistfulness enters and then departs his voice, so sudden I can't be sure it was there at all – "you'll have to avoid those. Also, avoid Hugo-hats. You know the type. So maybe…" He plucks a beret from a high shelf, offering it to me. "This?"

"No," I refuse immediately, shaking my head almost aggressively. "No, not at all. But I would like to see you in – " I confiscate a white beanie from the head of a faceless mannequin.

Bryon grins and snatches the beanie from my hand, forcing it onto his head. And, in a way, he looks cute with the whiskers and the brown hair flying every which way from under his cap. Striking a pose, Bryon questions, "So, how do I look, Penny, darling?"

"Don't call me Penny," I chide, "and I think you look amazing. Is that your hat?"

Bryon sighs heavily. He tugs it from his head, leaving his hair mussed and fluffy. "That's the exact reason I'm not buying this particular beanie. It looks good on me. That is not the purpose of a hat. A hat is not meant to flatter – rather, the exact opposite."

"You have a funny view on hats. So, what are you looking for in a hat?"

"The most ridiculous, beautiful, magnificent –" He gasps, eyes going round. His lower lip shivers, and then falls. "That. That is what I am looking for."

Next thing I know, we're walking out of the shop with newly adorned hats, pudgy Uncle Alec waving cheerful farewells. Bryon grins like a child that'd just discovered the answer to their most puzzling problem, striding down the street with a surreal, swinging step. I follow, smiling almost as broadly as people stare at us with anything from personally offended to just as childishly delighted as Bryon.

I had scored a silky black top hat with golden swirls around the base and a scarlet ribbon around the rim. Though I don't march about with the glee my uncle so proudly portrays, in my own sense, I am equally pleased with it. I'd never been all that big on hats, but this one feels right for the occasion.

Bryon has a black beanie, one almost too large for even his broad head. If that'd been it, he probably wouldn't have looked like a complete fool. But, instead, stitched in right above his forehead, is a giant smiling flower, its stalk emerging from the top of his head and curving down into a cheerful daisy blossom with limp plushy flower petals. It bobs with every step, swinging back and forth between his eyes. And never before have I seen a grown man so pleased to wear such a humiliating hat.

"Hey, Penryn," Bryon cries, nudging me with his elbow, "watch this!"

He rolls back his head in a majestic arch, and the flower rolls with him, turning in a complete circle. With each repetition, his grin grows broader. And we stay like that, for a while, merely strolling down the center of the street with smiles and sparkling eyes, both marveling over our hats, until, unbeknownst the two of us, the Watchers return.

As I walk beside Bryon, admiring the mosaic on one building's wall, I can almost see the flash of movement, almost catch the gleam of golden feathers high in the air before it dives down. My mouth opens in a silent warning not able to escape my throat in time as a golden angel whisks from the sky, gliding over the crowds and pulling Bryon's beanie from his head. With a mighty beat of his metallic wings, the golden angel rises in the sky, hovering over an old copper arch turned green by the elements' wrath.

To me, it seems like a challenge, the way he flaps his wings and waves the hat cruelly about, laughing thunderously.

By this time, my warning has escaped my mouth. Bryon's eyes dart about in confusion, his mussed hair fluffed out like a cockatoo chick, and his brow knit together in bewilderment. His eyes search as his hands fly up to pat his head in puzzlement – once he spots the golden angel, gleaming above the arch like a drop of sunlight, his eyes darken, lips twisting with panic.

Without another word to me, Bryon bolts after the angel, bellowing, "He's got my hat! He's got my hat! My father's got my hat! Somebody, get my hat back!"

* * *

**So, Thea and Sariel are coming into play next chapter, just so we're aware. For those that haven't been kept up to date, Sariel is Bryon's father. **

**Probably won't be updating for a while now – off to the middle of nowhere, I go! I wanted to get this chapter out before I left, though, so its quality may be a little… lacking. I tried to comb through it as finely as I could. Please, alert me if you find any mistakes so I can remedy them before any other readers can catch them, alright?**

**POLL: Puzzle pieces, puzzle pieces, so many puzzle pieces – where do they all fit? What's the final image? Let's focus on Belle primarily for this one, eh? **

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Chapter Twenty Four**

No sooner had Bryon pelted across the cobblestone than another had sped after that lone golden angel, this one mounted atop a magnificent canine clad in leather armor.

There is something eerily familiar about the female, though I don't have the time to study her for long – the oak-brown wolf she rides, though, is proportionately more like Scruffy, small and quick. It seems to me, however, that there's considerably more muscle packing the wolf's shoulders and hindquarters than Scruffy maintains, and significantly more of a warrior's charge in its pounding gait.

Both Bryon and I are quickly outstripped by the riding female, her wolf's paws a rapid drumbeat against the street's tiles. Upon catching sight of his new pursuer, the angel's flight differs – no longer does he fly just over the roofs, jeeringly waving the hat from side to side. Instead, he swiftly cuts upward, wings beating hastily, as he believes if the wolf can't reach him if he's safe in the air.

As the angel soars upwards, the wolf accosts accordingly, leaping onto the roof tiles with a savage growl, brown fur just a bolt of lightning over the shingles.

I slow my jog into a brisk walk, panting, realizing that either this wolf is going to snag the angel and drag him back to down to the ground or the angel will escape, unscathed, with Bryon's hat. Nothing I do will change either of those possibilities. I am left to watch.

The wolf scrambles up a church steeple and pauses at the very top, mere feet from where the angel frenetically attempts to soar further into the sky. The female rider flings herself from the back of the wolf, her leap ameliorated by the wolf's momentum. Alongside the entire street of awed Nephilim, I watch as she slams both hands around the angel's torso, and drags them both back to land.

Initially, the angel struggles, managing to beat his wings frailly twice before her surprise weight causes them both to plummet back to earth. I cry out, eyes wide and heart in my throat, as they spiral together towards the ground like suicidal lovers.

A fountain further down the street explodes upon their impact, spraying everyone in the square with water. Even if somehow, they'd been able to find comfort in the water in a shallow pool, I'm not sure how much it cushioned their fall, and, evidently, neither is anyone else – a worried scurry rushes towards the plaza, all eyes round and locked on the pair in the cement fountain.

Circling the fountain are the masses of alarmed Nephilim; they unknowingly block my path, and, without Bryon's ability to cleave through his subjects, I find myself pressing between two burly Nephilim to see through the wall of bodies blocking the angel and the female off. My curiosity is raging as thickly in my veins as my horror.

Laughing with a melodic, cheerful cadence, the female sits up first, brandishing a soggy beanie to the sky. Her brown hair is dripping with water, sopping all over her leather body armor and the fine pair of bronze swords on her back. Her wide, friendly grin and rounded face seems almost familiar, as if I had seen it before.

"I won!" she gloats, peeling herself from the drenched angel's chest, unfolding his grip from around her. Water cascades from her back as she stands unsteadily in the shallow pool. Tucking the hat under her arm, the woman extends her hand towards the golden angel and where he lies, groaning softly, in the cracked cement.

"You did," the angel laughs breathily, grasping her offered hand with knotted, hard fingers that've seen much work, allowing himself to be pulled from the water by the woman without a fuss. "You won, fair and square. And you couldn't have chosen a more complete way to do it, either."

"Thank you, by the way." The woman leans forward as the angel regains his balance, pecking his wet lips. "If you hadn't had turned at that last moment there in the plummet, I would've been broken on the sidewalk. And you took the brunt of the fall because of it."

The angel's grin reminds me all too much of Bryon, with his broad face and whiskered chin, and the long metallic blonde locks now soaked with fountain water. He sweeps up the woman into his arms, dipping her low as if they're in the middle of an intimate dance number.

"That was a very, very bad idea," he murmurs silkily, voice quiet and deep. "Pulling me out of the sky like that?" He tsks teasingly. "Don't you know I always get the upper hand, one way or another? Haven't you learned that by now?"

Her alarm and realization is rather amusing to watch as the golden angel releases her, sending her slipping back into the water. Although most of the laughter begins the moment she hits the waves, I find myself noticing that his does not until he's certain that she'd fallen without injury. When it does join the chorus, it quickly overrules all other voices, with a thunderous beat and choppy rhythm.

Spluttering water, the woman rises like a swamp creature, swearing colorfully and calling for "Cara" repeatedly. At this, the angel visibly worries, and tries to take to the sky again. He doesn't get very far with his droopy feathers and heavy clothes, though, and those laborious flaps he does take are lopsided and sloppy. When he falls to the ground gracelessly, the woman is lifting herself into the giant wolf's saddle, cursing vividly at him. True fear pales the angel's face as she tosses Bryon's hat at a Fallen angel I identify as Baelan, and prepares to charge at her foe.

Off the two go, rolling and tussling and preying upon each other's weaknesses like feral dogs. Neither of them ever seem too mad, though – it's more of a show, to keep the game running, and both of them are always displaying hidden concern for the other's wellbeing before continuing their game.

Bay lifts Bryon's hat. "Who does this belong to, exactly?"

"Me!" Bryon calls over his rumbling laughter. Stumbling through the crowds while gripping his stomach as if his chortles could cause his belly to split open, Bryon reclaims his soggy hat, snuggly fitting it over his perfectly dry head.

"I should've guessed," Bay smiles. As I wrestle my way through the departing Nephilim crowds to reach the pair of them, I can't help but drink in Hugo's boyfriend's appearance – the snug black T-shirt accents the muscles he might've been trying to hide, and brightens his previously dark red skin marginally. His face has the classic angelic beauty, but there's something awry, something different from any other angel I'd truly studied before. It isn't cruelty as I would've expected from a frightful Fallen angel, but rather, a sort of softness around his eyes and lips, a leniency in the way he holds his sleek black wings.

As I approach the pair, Bryon's reflective bronze eyes single me out from the crowd, and he beams in my direction, wringing out his hat and stuffing it in a pocket. Over the heads of hurried Nephilim, my uncle shouts, "So, how was your first experience with your grandparents, eh?"

_Grandparents_.

The word sends a tremor through my insides, and simply refuses to click with the faces I'd seen. Stumbling up to the pair of tall men, I blink twice.

"No way."

Bryon grins broader. "They don't exactly fit the classic grandparents stereotype, do they? No, I'm afraid Theophilia doesn't carry around pockets full of decade-old sweets, and Sariel is rather lacking on that one story that is always repeated over dinner. They're my parents, though, and your grandparents, so they're special in that regard."

"Theo – Theoph –" My eyebrows purse together. "Isn't that Thea?"

"For those that wish to go the short way around it, yes," Bay purrs, his dark eyes showing faint hints of emotion, but nothing more.

"She Wolf and Lion! The famous pairing of elite super-killers that spawned the Wouldn't-Hurt-A-Fly son!" Hugo crows, waddling up from a shop on the side of the road, both arms clutching a giant bouquet of commendably colorful flowers. He winks at me and holds a finger to his lips, a warning to keep quiet.

"Well." Bryon cocks his head to one side, smirking playfully. "I guess that's one thing to call me. Most people choose something a tad simpler, though."

Hugo snorts. "I am not _most people_. In fact, most people" – Hugo's eyes go large, and a strange, almost tender expression settles over his face, something I'd never seen before on the bitter merchant – "wouldn't have remembered their 648th anniversary with their boyfriends happened while they were climbing through icky tunnels, and would've completely blown it off. I, however, have remembered, and…" Hugo trails off, suddenly looking like he wants to bury his head in the flowers he'd purchased.

Turning on heel to see Hugo's bouquet, Bay smiles, the softness I'd glimpsed earlier in his eyes spreading throughout his entire body. He wraps up Hugo in a monster hug, squishing the fragrant bouquet between their bodies, and nearly lifts the boy's feet from the ground. Pressing soft, gentle kisses to the parts of Hugo's face he can reach, Bay whispers something in Hugo's ear only for the two of them to share.

Normally, such a blatant display of homosexuality causes conflict on the streets – those against the rights of the gays would quarrel with those supporting the poor lovers, and the arguments would become fierce enough to wrench the couple apart. But here Hugo and Bay are met with quite a different approach: people aggregate at the edges of the square, gregarious faces appearing to be even mildly impressed as they clap for the pair. A few people shout out that they should just get married already. Bryon pounds them both on the back, grinning from ear to ear.

"Seriously, though," Bryon pipes up after Hugo and Bay exchange a heated kiss, "why haven't the two of you busted out the rings yet?"

"You know," Hugo chatters almost nervously, "I almost thought that I was going to surprise you with that question once, but then we got in that massive argument and… I don't know…"

Bay wraps the arm not holding the bouquet around Hugo's shoulders, cradling the scrawny boy to his muscular chest. "I don't want to give too much away," Bay says with an extensively casual voice, "but I do think that our 650th would be a lovely time to start taking things seriously. Hugo?"

Hugo, who's blushing with pleasure, nods hurriedly. His eyes sparkle with excitement. Wriggling from Bay's protective grip, he frees a hand, and shakes a scolding finger in front of his boyfriend's face. "You know what that means, Bay. There are two more years for you to get into trouble, two more years for you to try and be a hero and get your head cut off. Promise me, for two more years, you won't get yourself killed?"

Bay nods crisply, determination blazing in his gaze. "That goes for you, too. But if both of us are together in two years' time…"

Their gazes meet, soft and sweet, and their hands find each other. It seems almost a scene from a gay romance movie, the way they stare at one another with unparalleled adoration. And I can't help grinning with slightly embarrassed, slightly pleased euphoria.

"Bravo!" I whisper to no one in particular.

Hugo is the one to break the amorous stare, his opalescent eyes gleaming with a new ecstasy. "So, other than stealing Bryon's hat back from your father and/or grandfather, what have the two of you been doing? Penryn, I thought I heard something about you getting lessons from Emilio today."

"We cancelled it so I could show Penryn the town," Bryon answers for me, glancing my direction fondly. "It's understandable, of course – she's been on the go for quite a long time, I'd want to rest, too."

"Really?" Hugo's eyes scintillate with excitement, dismissing the tales of my woes without batting an eye. "You're touring Sercem Domu? I take it you've already been through the Downtown, area, then."

"Where are you headed next?" Bay rumbles, cocking his head. "The W-squared" – seeing my bewildered expression, he elaborates – "uh, Watchers and Wives have just returned. They're everywhere, and many of them don't know how to stop talking. I can tell you if there are a lot of them down where you plan on heading next."

"Hmm." Bryon's eyebrows pinch together. "Have many of them headed to the temples? I want to show Penryn everything there is to see in those halls, she's shown particular interest in the Clockwork Angel."

"The Clockwork Angel?" Hugo cries as Bay answers, "No, most of them head towards there by nightfall to pray for safe-passage and such. You should be fine.

"The Clockwork Angel?" Hugo cries again, but, in the same heartbeat, Bryon says, "Good. If all the chambers are filled to the brim, it's difficult to see anything, though usually it diminishes the icy drafts problems."

With a slightly annoyed expression, Hugo waits a few seconds before, for the third time, shouting, "The Clockwork Angel?"

"Yeah." I smile wryly at him, mildly certain I'd been the only one to register his dilemma. "Why? Are you something of an expert on her folklore or something?"

Hugo stands straight, smiling crookedly at me, adjusting his aviator's jacket and smoothing out his floppy dark tie. "As it so happens, I am. Did Bryon tell you I'm trying to recreate those time-travelling, free-standing, steampunk-themed wings of hers?"

"Not him, but Ogden," I recall, thinking back to Ogden's forge in the heart of the Nephilim tunnels. "He said something about you wanting to be the one that created her wings. That true?"

"Sure is," Bay chuckles.

"Point of the matter," Hugo elucidates, elbowing Bay with a roll of his eyes, "is that if you've got any questions on lore and myth, I can help. I've analyzed all artwork and all scriptures, heard thousands of first-hand accounts. I can tell you all I can about the mysterious clockwork lady."

"Have you seen her yourself?" I question, eyebrows raised.

Hugo grins wolfishly. "I have. I have. From a distance, true, but I have."

"I've had multiple encounters with Black Wolf," Bay pipes up. "That is one lean, mean he-wolf – and it is a he-wolf, that story of them all being sisters is complete bogus."

"Shh!" scolds Bryon, glancing around at the passing Nephilim. "The believers are quite fierce in their defense of their theories. Come now, let's walk in a normal, unhurried fashion as quickly as we can towards the temples."

Complying with what he'd instructed, we all walk in a long line, with Hugo and I at the middle to allow for an exchange in information. In a hushed voice, he continues to whisper things into my ears, filling my brain with stories and legends, murmuring her secrets on a crowded Nephilim street for only me to hear.

"Despite what some may say," Hugo whispers, his voice a secretive hiss in my ear, "the Clockwork Angel's tale is one of sadness, one of gloom, and one of a curse that never ends. Contrary to the popular belief, the problem didn't emerge when the Angel first obtained the wings. The sisters did not fight over a pair of glorious metal wings, two of them had flesh and blood wings, for Christ's sake. No, the Angel had wings for some say _centuries_ before the turmoil began. Her tale didn't start out as a sorrowful thing, but rather, one of tender, tender love and the first love triangle to ever have been.

"Nothing is specific in all these legends, mind you, so I don't have exact dates or precise descriptions or even correct names in all cases. So, you know, bear with me, I've pieced together the puzzle as best I can.

"The Clockwork Angel was born allegedly in a time of strife and war. Many believe that time has yet to come, and she just visits the past with the help of those clockwork beauties. In this time of strife and war, whenever it was or will be, she attracted the attention of a dashing archangel – nobody's certain who, all that's known is that he had a pair of white, white wings, white as freshly fallen wings." Hugo snorts rudely. "Really narrows it down, doesn't it? There's got to be thousands of archangels with white wings… Okay, not thousands, but still…"

"We're almost ninety three percent sure it's not Raphael," Bay adds helpfully, with a sympathetic glance my direction. "He's _too_ rough, _too_ hard, _too_ testosterone pumped. Even the Black Wolf has a limit."

"Right, right, right!" Hugo flails his arms as though he's swatting invisible insects. "Don't steal my thunder, Bay! Anyway, so this white-winged archangel falls in love with this human woman. It's, like, true love and stuff, because he literally can't make himself leave her alone, despite all the war and strife going on in the background. And, for her part, the human lady loved him with all her heart, all her soul. A lot of people say that, towards the end of their golden era, they had a beautiful baby girl, but many, myself included, question as to where that little girl –"

Breaking off with a string of vulgarities, Hugo begins to dance and writhe, bucking violently to throw something from his shoulders. Though I'm initially confused by his abrupt disturbance, the fog clears at Belle's scree of terror. I leap forward, arms outstretched, and she leaps for me, a trembling roly-poly ball of fear.

Quivering, she wraps her tail around my bicep and coils around my neck, cool scales catching on my hair. Her breath circles over my cheek, like the frailest zephyr to ever blow, and her entire body quivers, scales clinking against one another.

"Hugo!" Bryon barks sharply, his eyes dark.

"Sorry!" Hugo yelps, abruptly guilty looking. With large, pleading eyes, he turns to Belle. "Sorry, I thought you were some genetically engineered spider!"

Mane pricking, Belle spits with distaste.

"I don't think comparing her to a spider brightened her spirits," Bay grunts incredulously.

"Fine! Fine, fine, fine!" Throwing his hands up, Hugo rolls his eyes, seemingly determined to be difficult. "Alright, so, we were at daughter. Yeah, I don't personally believe in the daughter theory, it was only rumored in Africa. There's also a big question that isn't answered in any variations of the legend – if this daughter existed, what the devil happened to her? She isn't mentioned again, spoke of at all. It's my firm belief she was fabricated to show how perfect life was for the archangel and the woman.

"Actually, it wasn't completely perfect. I lied, I'm sorry. Every night that the archangel wasn't in her immediate company, the woman was haunted by a demon. An archdemon, to be precise. Try as he might, the archangel couldn't stay with his wife every night to ward the demon away, not without suspicion and rumor spreading throughout his ranks. He did not want his love to suffer from the archdemon's tortures, but neither did he want her ripped apart, screaming in agony for mercy, by the men under his command.

"Again, there is much variation to _how_ she was treated by the archdemon while her hubby was away. Many claim he was just there to whisper to her, to pace around her bed, all night long without pausing, driving her mad with the sultry gazes he gave her as she tried to sleep. A surprising amount of people say that it was her bedroom, and he was a lawless demon scared of only her _husband_, so when she was alone…" Hugo clears his throat awkwardly. "Anyway, my theory isn't that, because there'd be some creepy demon spawn that never actually is recorded in any myth. My theory is physical pain – I've seen her once, from afar, but those that've seen her up close say that she's covered in scars. I think the archdemon came every night to rip up her flesh. Of course, the raping theory is plausible as well if they weren't compatible, but it's simply not what I choose to believe in.

"Another thing popularly debated is _why_. _Why_ did the archdemon do it? Two main possibilities: she either made a deal with the archdemon when she was younger and naïve, or the archdemon had an old feud with the archangel she loved and chose to let it out on his wife. This, though commonly debated, really isn't something that I think matters all that much, so I haven't truly researched it to the lengths others have. Either version seems credible to me. The first would explain an occurrence later on, the second would explain exactly why the archangel and archdemon are at each other's throats since the beginning."

"Does anyone know who the demon is – or, ah, was?" I interrogate, rubbing a finger between Belle's horns like I'd seen Bryon do.

"No." Annoyance flashes in Hugo's coppery eyes. "No, actually, we don't. I wish we had more complex descriptions of what they looked like before they turned, but we really don't. We're only certain that he had black Fallen angel wings – again, not much help. So, back to the story. It's unclear how long he haunted the woman, how long the archangel struggled in vain to rid her of his influence, even giving his wife his sword to help her fend him off, but we do know that one day, the archangel snapped, and would have the demon's troubles no more. Unbeknownst of his wife, he set a trap for the archdemon, and hovered over her as she slept until the demon arrived.

"When it did arrive, it began to treat the woman in its usual fashion, however that might be. Upon hearing his wife's scream, the archangel tucked into a dive, his sword braced in his hands. Brazen fool, he tried to fight the archdemon, right before the wife's very eyes. Unable to escape the archangel, the archdemon fought just as hard and just as vicious, like a cornered rat. They were equally matched in power, and both wielded tremendous power. In fact, they demolished the city around them. In an effort to minimize the damage to one place, many, myself included, believe that the Clockwork Angel would beat her wings against the clouds and send them to a new time and place with the help of the eclipse above her. The males hardly noticed, brawling it out far below her."

With Hugo's words and tones, I can almost see the woman fiercely pounding a pair of metal wings, watching in horror as her lover and her monster battle far below, trying to aid her husband in the little ways she can.

"Eventually, it reached a point where the Clockwork Angel could bring them back no further in time, because there was no more time to retrace. And it was here the archangel skewered the archdemon through the stomach, winning at last the deadly duel. But before he could escape triumphantly, the archdemon ruptured the angel's chest with the serrated blades on his black wings, locking them together as they bled out in a sort of metal embrace. Some people say that it was the other way around, that the archdemon hooked the archangel first, but, again, doesn't matter all that much.

"As they died, the woman foolishly ripped the archdemon's wings from her lover's chest, unknowingly speeding the process of his death. As he gasped for air in her arms, an eclipse like the one they'd left behind at their own house and in their own time formed behind her. Upon his last dying breath, the moon and sun fell into position together. And, oh, how that woman cried, screaming out at his dead corpse that she could've put up with it, that she could've dealt with it, that he had been stupid to give himself up when she could've been suffering instead.

"And, as she said these things and willed him back to life, something was listening, it seems. Here we go, branching out on all theories, just so I can cover all the bases. Some religious freaks, like this nutty benevolent ascetic" – Hugo playfully cuffs Bryon – "think it was a gift from God. Others say it was her own power, a power pumping in her veins that drew the archangel to her in the first place. I, personally, would like to believe that it was her love, so pure and strong, that brought a swell of power that pounded life back into her dead lover.

"No one's really sure why the demon came back as well – it's a mystery, no way around it. Those that believe that it was a deal she made with the archdemon say it was part of the bargain, but I find that a bit strange. Truth is, nobody knows for certain. But we do know that she resurrected the two of them, and thick, coarse hair grew over their contorting bodies, fangs burst through their jaws, and that they grew to gargantuan sizes."

"According to myth," Bryon adds with a charming smile, "those were the first two wolves as well. They say that, even today in honor of those first two, all wolves have a smidgen of a dead person's soul lodged in their brain, and that all wolves used to be people. They can't remember it, of course, but their personalities are the same, and they're drawn to people they knew in past lives. That's why some wolves get along with people great and others… don't. Kinda creepy, isn't it?"

"Not really." Bay smirks, his eyes landing on a building not far down the street. "Scruffy isn't exactly the most threatening being in the world, is he?"

"True," Hugo comments ruefully. "I got the least frightening wolf in all the world. But that's okay, I suppose. Maybe he was my little brother in a past life!" Hugo beams, grinning with all his teeth like a deranged shark. "Family lasts forever…"

"Where is Scruffy, on that note?" Frowning, I turn about, brow scrunched. "Isn't he usually, like, Hugo's third leg?"

"Usually, he is," Hugo concedes with an amused smile. "But, if you care to notice, there's a lot of muscly men and women missing from the town as well. They went to work and dig an underground labyrinth off in Nevada desert somewhere for the human relocation, and one of the work-wolves wasn't cooperating. Naturally, I volunteered Scruffy. He'll be tired tonight, but it's for a good cause."

"I sent Raphael out there, too," Bryon adds with an almost guilty tone of voice, his eyes watching me cautiously, as if assuring I won't rip his throat out. "We needed a gruff, tough guy to replace Emilio. It took a bit of coaxing, but he's gone to help. They'll be back by eight o'clock."

I'm not that pissed – in fact, I'm not pissed at all – but I am enormously intrigued by what sort of bribes Bryon had used.

"How did you get him off to work in a sweaty desert all day without a fuss?" I wonder, utterly perplexed. "He'd through a fit if it were me, ranting about tough archangels being too fragile to do grunt work…"

"He did rant." Bryon's lips twist in a dry smile. "He ranted a lot. But I ranted more. Truth be told, it probably was a good option for him. Working side by side with Nephilim will help abolish dislikes on either end of the bargain. It can't hurt to have Daine's good opinion of you, either."

"He needs to tan, too," Hugo adds. "Honestly, did you see it, Bay? Well, no, of course you didn't, but he had the farmer's tan. Ugh. Absolutely awful on angels, let's not even discuss _arch_angels."

"He did not –" I protest, but Bryon cuts me off by announcing, "We're here. Try to talk as little as possible, please."

The building before me vanquishes all thoughts of Raffe's nonexistent farmer's tan. Cool grey marble shapes the temple into beautiful cups and curves, sending elegant spires to the sky and bold columns descending downwards. Vaguely familiar to a cathedral, the stone building holds an eerie sort of majesty. Instead of the atypical flowerlike stained glass at the window, it holds another depiction of the Clockwork Angel and her two wolves, only this time, she's clutching a cross, as if to prove that it is indeed a place to worship God.

"There are two wings," Bryon whispers for only me to hear, his voice a whisper over the groaning creak the massive wooden doors emit as they swing apart. "One of the wings is for the other things people can pray to – saints, Watchers, Wives, the Clockwork Angel, even _me_, would you beliee it. The other _larger_ wing is a monument to the sole King, the Lord our God. I dislike physically worshipping anyone but Him – I pay my respects to my mother and father when available by offering their shrines incense sticks, but I refuse to do anything else."

I'm unsure of how to respond to such claims, but fortunately, Fate smiles and Bryon doesn't require an answer. He shoves apart the wooden doors, allowing a warm flush of air to flood us, and quickly is absorbed shaking the hand of a rickety old man with a lazy eye and a limp by the name of Alerion.

After exchanging many a cheerful greeting, even scratching Belle between the horns, the old man practically skips down one of the wings, holding an ornamented candle in his quivering hands. He prances all the way down the hall, leading us between the silent figures of Wives and Watchers, the couples across from one another. Bryon pauses at his parents' shrines to light incense sticks. Despite the fact that no one is in the halls beside our little group, many incense sticks are already laid before them, burning brightly and illuminating their faces in quiver orange light.

The high ceiling is painted with a scene of the sky, with the moon and the sun chasing around each other, a thin strip of brown buffering the two of them to illustrate the dawn and dusk of times. I swear that it slowly moves, so lethargic any change is hardly visible.

As we pass Bryon's statue, his metal cloak caught in a whorl around his feet, I almost feel tempted to pause by his side and light one of the incense sticks to show my respect as he'd done to both of his parents, if only to see his chest swell with emotion, if only to watch as tears glint in his eyes, if only to feel his arms around me as he whips me up into a strong yet gentle embrace. But before I'd fully contemplated the idea, we'd whisked past the tall monument, leaving both it and my ambivalence behind us.

Ending the corridor and swallowing the wall is the Clockwork Angel's shrine. In the center of the wall is an alcove dedicated to the Angel herself, her coppery bronze wings spanning around the curve of the concave and her hair tossed in a beautiful storm. Before her, several lit candles quiver instead of incense, their sticks ranging in heights, widths, and colors, like little individual prayers flickering with the temple's drafts.

The old man slips his ornate candle into a slot on the wall, shedding light onto the shrine, and frolics back to my side.

"Does the little Princess know the legend of the Clockwork Angel, hmm?" he wonders, misty eyes sparkling with joy. "Does she know of the Angel's sorrows, her pain?"

"Please, call me Penryn," I offer, somewhat freaked out by the man's roving eye. "And, yeah, I know of her two lovers."

"Ah, yes." Alerion smiles with thin, wrinkly lips, a hidden sense of sadness in his eyes. "One of such valor, such love, to last every day! Every night, she is plunged into darkness's cruelty, and every day, she cries onto light's waiting shoulder. The endless cycle, poor, poor girl…"

I stare at him without comprehension, seeking explanation, but it doesn't matter to Alerion. He's off the hall with a loony lope, galloping around the corner before anyone can issue a proper farewell.

"What was he talking about?" I question, turning to Bryon instinctively for knowledge. Smiling and leaning on the tip of his staff, he waves towards Hugo, whose already puffing up for another big speech.

"Well, that's what we didn't have time for. I got distracted by shipping Pigeon-Bat and Scruffy Mutt off to the middle of nowhere. It's the tale most people are familiar with – every night, the White Wolf with his demonic wings, would taunt and torture the Clockwork Angel, just like he had as a demon. I personally believe it was more out of misery than actual malicious intent – something to do, someone to blame for his eternity as a wolf. I mean, it'd kinda suck to just wake up as a wolf when you thought you were done with life, and have to be a simple entity for all of time. Because White Wolf now symbolized the moon and the night and moved accordingly with the daily cycle, he was only allowed to ever be in nighttime – no sun, ever. He walked around the planet in eternal night. Demon or not, I'd miss the sun after a while. It was only later that the Clockwork Angel discovered she could rip them from their quotidian tasks and send them on errands, so, in those agonizing years, the White Wolf would make them both depressed and glum. She would try to escape him through glowing flowers, but they would soar into the sky whenever she got near him."

"Sound familiar?" Bryon chuckles.

Ignoring Bryon, Hugo continues, "It was only her lover, Black Wolf, who could dispel the darkness's grip with his sunlight. And so Black Wolf would charge ahead, his broad shoulders pounding with every stride, tugging his sunlight along with him. And once he arrived, the Clockwork Angel would be so miserable she'd curl up against his shoulder and sob, begging him not to ebb away with the fading sunset, not to abandon her to the wrath of White Wolf, despite the knowledge that he couldn't prevent it. Eclipses were the only time that Black Wolf had the ability to take out all his pent-up rage, to avenge his wife's agony. Like I said, sometime later, she freed them permanently from their duties of racing one another around the Earth, and they only drew their powers from their celestial elements – plus they only ever felt safe in day or night accordingly.

"The naturally donned eclipses are still bloody, terrible times, and when most of the sightings occur. Unnatural or unexpected eclipses are signs that the Clockwork Angel is harnessing her time-travel, and that the two wolves are being bound by her to bring their elements together. It's the one time they get along, answering her call. Even White Wolf seems to obey her for some reason."

For a moment, everything is quiet as Hugo's story laps at the lavish walls of the temple, reflecting off the eyes of the two wolf statues. Though I know it's rude, though I know I probably should keep silent, I can't help piping up, "That sounds like a great heap of folklore baloney."

"You did ask for the legend," Bryon points out. "According to many legends, I am an old hermit with metal orbs in my eye sockets, with a staff of harnessed evening light and a cloak woven from sunbreak's tears. It might be that the Black Wolf and White Wolf were bound by a truce that made it so they couldn't fight except for eclipses or something. There might be nothing supernatural about it."

"Probably more likely than sun and moon dogs," Bay approves, stepping towards the miniature shrines on either side of the Clockwork Angel. "People pray to them, all the same." Approaching the rightmost shrine, he places a single index finger on the ivory carving's snout, tracing the fragile wolf's intricate designs lightly. "White Wolf is known for being the master of madness, of clever games, and of sickness or disease. It's said that he brings plagues and insanity. People pray to him for intelligence, for safety from sickness or irrationality, for a merchant's knowledge, or for the chess master's wisdom. He reaps plenty of candles unless it is war time, as it happens to be."

I study the carving of the sitting wolf and his lean, knobby limbs, strangely drawn by his black eyes with only a slit of red through the center. His black wings drape over the top of the shrine, beneath each of the curves in the batlike limbs a different scene of death and sickness. I decide that I wouldn't want any sort of protection from such an eerie canine.

"I wouldn't pray to him," Bryon hums disapprovingly. "He could offer me nothing, that lonely wolf, even if he had the power to grant wishes. No, only my God could give me what I wanted most of all."

"Oh?" Hugo murmurs loftily, cocking his head towards Bryon with a smirk over his face and lifted eyebrows. "Care to enlighten us on what that was, O high and mighty disciple?"

Bryon develops a sudden interest in the starry ceiling after a rapid glance towards me, swallowing down any emotions. He doesn't seem eager to respond, but Hugo isn't letting him off the hook without reprimand. With a rabid grin and devilishly squinted eyes, the boy studies Bryon, clearly anticipating an answer.

"And the Black Wolf?" I ask to dispel the awkwardness, stepping closer to the considerably larger wolf. Belle trills softly upon seeing the statue, the emotion influencing her gentle tone a mystery to me. Perhps it is because of the statue's appearance itself – though his lupine face is more regal and elegant in a godlike fashion, a fashion perhaps meant to repel mortals, there is something proficiently more welcoming in his broad appearance, his obsidian mane fanned out, and his magnificent white wings held proudly. His crisp, clear sapphire eyes hold mystery, but – could I be imagining it? – a hospitable warmth, a fire ready to burn away any fears I may maintain.

"Black Wolf." Bay's voice is grimmer than it had been previously. "Glory in battle, success in war, the ability to be absolutely ruthless. Wrath, rage, berserker instincts. Family ties, blood ties, the bitter fairness of war. Brawn, strategy, tactical mind. Courage, loyalty, and leadership. Chaos. Bloody chaos. As you could imagine, many people are lighting candles for him – no one wants this to come to war, and yet the drums have begun to beat. They cannot halt their song before their time is due."

_Courage. Loyalty. Leadership. _

Those words echo in my mind. I stare into the stone eyes, their glinting facets making the obsidian wolf seem almost alive. I have no will to tear my gaze from his.

"Shall we go?" Bryon questions, his warm voice distant and inviting, as if coaxing me to emerge from my stupor. "There isn't much to see aside from these, though they are beautiful." He taps his staff on the ground twice, as if impatient to leave.

Hugo replies muffledly and follows suit. Soon enough, the two of them are striding down the hallway with slow, swinging steps, leaving the eerie shrines behind them but leaving the ornamental candle bringing light to the desolate chamber in its peg.

I cannot tear myself from Black Wolf's mesmerizing bue gaze, even as Bay steps beside me, an uncomfortably lacking amount of distance between the two of us. His warmth spans the meager separation, heating my prickling skin.

My fascinated thoughts exit quite swiftly as Bay leans down to my ears, his chin brushing my hair and sending tickles of unease down the back of my neck. I recoil away from his lips, even as he whispers to me.

"Bryon didn't want to admit to anything under Hugo's cheeky interrogation, but he was praying for nieces, and nephews," Bay breathes, "since he'd never have children of his own."

And, leaving me to ponder that in the dark corridor, he pulls the intricate from the candle slot, then heads after Bryon and Hugo with a proud, warrior's stalk. Mouth slightly hanging open, I watch him join the others with a light greeting. The continued murmur of soft conversation is the only interval to mark the time I sit crouched there, and it is not that long a span. Together they await me at the very end of the wing, bathed in the light of the stained glass window, three tall men: one with wings, another with a staff, and a third with two speedy legs.

Almost as if I'm waiting for something to goad me forward, to shove me into action, I turn back to the Black Wolf, meeting his jeweled gaze. Instead of welcoming me to curl at its feet, it seems encouraging me to leave its presence, as if it believes I should not only follow the men, but exit with a bang.

_Courage._

The Black Wolf is giving me courage, that's what he's doing; whether he's mythical or not, the mere notion that some supernatural force could be looking over my shoulder is enough to bring a warm, courageous glow to my heart.

Swiping an incense stick from a basket against the wall, I hold it up to the flickering wick of one of Black Wolf's candles. Once it catches fire and burns with its own flame, I march back up the aisle, ignoring the curious gazes trained on me from the opposite end.

Careful to leave it perfectly straight and erect, I lay the incense stick at the Bryon statue's feet, slipping it into a little metal cylinder made for the sole purpose to hold my stick. Of course, there are other offerings in the cylinders, other burning incenses and a few wildflowers poking from the ashes dusting the bottom, but it somehow feels private, laying the stick before my uncle's feet, as if it is a privilege reserved for me alone. I bow my head once to the statue, unsure of how to depart respectfully.

The heat flushing my cheeks is nowhere near as bold as the tremendous warmth of Bryon's gaze.

* * *

Daine holds his breath, shadowed by the arches of the castle courtyard. The little girl, having finished with her examination scheduled for today, had been eager to return to her sister. However, Penryn, it seems, had been trekking around Sercem Domu with her uncle, and an exact position of the two has been hard to come by. Relief reached Daine when her grandfather, the tall, stocky angel by the name of Sariel, had strode in through the courtyard. As soon as the word "grandfather" had left his mouth, Paige had started to trot eagerly towards the angel.

Shaking his head like a dog to spray water about, Sariel wanders around the courtyard, oblivious to the little girl's wobbling steps towards him. He flexes his mighty wings, sending golden flashes over the tiles. The only things that don't shimmer on those proud feathers are the very tips, where crescent moons of purest white loop. Paige pauses, transfixed by such glamorous wings.

This causes Sariel to take notice of her. He pauses, frowning down at her, shoving his long metallic hair from his handsome face. Blinking with his bright, reflective eyes, Sariel studies the courtyard, as if searching for a parent to equip the child with.

Upon finding no one strolling on the hot tiles aside from himself and Daine, Sariel drops to a knee before the girl without hesitation. "Hello," he greets simply, his friendly tones somehow benign despite their deep, booming notes. "You lost, kiddo? What's your name, darling?"

Paige locks up, as if suddenly frightened, nervous at his being so close. She mouths her name as best she can, beginning to tremble slightly.

"What was that?" Sariel questions, inching back slightly, still smiling toothlessly with warm, welcoming eyes. "Didn't quite catch it. My name's Sariel. You can call me Saw if you feel like it."

Daine's stomach leaps, and he feels the need to intervene. Striding across the sunny courtyard, he greets the two of them with little more than a nod of the head.

"Sariel, this is one of my patients, Paige Young," he explains, studying the large angel critically. "She's been stitched up by the angels, experimented on, quite awful stuff. She really does want to get to know her grandfather, but, as it so happens, she's also skittish around wings in general."

Sariel's comprehension seems to have quit directly after the key word that'd turned Paige's attention elsewhere as well.

"Wait," he rumbles, soaring up to his full height. His golden eyes have golden gears working beneath the scintillating veils, piecing the picture together. "Paige Young? Grandfather?"

"Yes," answers Daine crisply, stomaching his glee with immense difficulty. "As best we can tell, she's the younger daughter of your second son. Penryn Young, the older daughter, is out and about with your son."

Sariel's eyes have never been wider. His mouth drops open. But it doesn't take him long to recover; abruptly, he grins, raw delight glinting boiling with the gold. His breaths are shaky and shuddering, as if he doesn't wish to give himself false hope, but he simply can't hold it back.

"Are you sure?" he inquires breathlessly, excitement causing his fingers to jitter together. "Are you absolutely, completely, utterly sure?"

Daine's eyebrows raise, and his demeanor crumbles, allowing a smile to puncture his calm. "Would you like to see the birth certificates?"

Trembling more violently than Paige ever had, Sariel turns his gaze back to the girl, his shivering smile somehow more beautiful than his beatific grin had been. He slowly kneels, wings practically shaking all their magnificent feathers out, bringing himself back to Paige's eye level. It seems as if the world is holding his breath, waiting for the predator's reaction to his grandchild.

Slowly, the golden angel smiles, blinking tears from his eyes. "Forget Saw," he whispers quaveringly, grinning tenderly. "You – you call me Grandpa, you hear? _Grandpa_."

* * *

**So. So, so, so. **

**Back from backpacking – it was a load of fun, but I missed getting all my reviews. You all blew up my inbox, so thanks! It was a great welcome-home surprise! **

**POLL: Sariel and Paige... you think that she'll take to him the way she took to Bryon, or will their bond be something different?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	26. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Chapter Twenty Five**

"Be careful around this 'un," grunts a stubbly-chinned stableman as he walks past, meaty bucket thrown over a shoulder. His beady eyes are locked on the dark stable we'd just approached, his gaze reproachful in nature. "He bites. Take a chunk out of your arm, this 'un will. Very nasty temperament. Think he might be depressed meself, but I haven't ever seen the likes o' one so bitter."

Hugo frowns at the boarded up doorway – most of the other wolves can enter and exit freely – and questions, "Why is he locked up? That's probably not helping his temper. In my experiences, if you've got an angry wolf, you just let it go its own path."

The stableman shrugs, dumping the raw meat into the stable beside the nasty wolf's. "Wasn't me decision, it wasn't. But whenever we'd let him out, he'd start snapping at the other wolves, and trying to get out over the town. Couldn't let him nip at children or nuthin', so we had to lock him away. Poor fella. Doesn't even like the light, 'e's so irritable."

The stalls on either side of the stable aisle are mostly well-lit and airy, with all sides adorned with large windows to allow a breeze through the otherwise stagnant air. Even the ceilings filter light through the mesh coating them. The stable doors are nonexistent on anything but nursing mothers, allowing many wolves to stretch their legs and trot down to a pen at the end of the long stable yard. Most of the canines seem content to sit in their large, padded rooms, however, and sleep or rest. Some have more than one nestled in the rooms, as if two wolves are hanging out with one another to pass the time, just like people. All thus far have greeted us with lolling tongues and drooling grins.

This particular wolf's dark, despondent stable puzzles me, and I can't help pursuing further. I try to peer through the windows into the stables, looking for some signs of the acrimonious wolf in the shroud of darkness he dwells in.

"What's his name?" I ask, searching the front of his stall for a nametag as the others have. "Does he not have a name? Maybe that's why he's so grumpy."

The stableman frowns, pursing his lips. He comes over to our group, placing his grimy hands on his hips to stare into the dark room. "Dunno. Think it might be Pepper."

"Pepper?" Bay repeats, his eyes widening with recognition. "Pepper was the wolf that refused to join the work force this morning. He threw a fit and nearly bit a stableboy's head off."

"The same," the stableman agrees with a terse nod. "I told Horace just to leave the fella alone, let him be in his peace in quiet til I came 'round to gather him, but that tyke wouldn't have it. It's his own damn fault the mongrel tore the chunk from his shoulder, but cha can't help feeling sorry for the boy. Didn't know no better."

I recoil from the window, repulsed at the evil doings of the animal.

"So this creature's why Scruffy's not right here." Hugo's lips twist slightly. "You know, that does put a dent in my admiration for him. Scruffy doesn't like to work for people other than me, you know. By tonight, he'll be achy and sore and sweaty. Now that, that will be a poor –"

"If slightly melodramatic," Bay inserts, smiling at Hugo with unabashed adoration.

"– wolf, it will be." Hugo casts Bay a smitten glance, and the two huddle slightly closer together.

"I'd like to see this Pepper," Bryon decides, stepping closer to the stable. "I'm willing to bet that he's a lot more docile with a calm hand. Exaggerated fierceness is common, you know." He shoots me a meaningful gaze, as if hoping I'd learn something from his preaching. "An accurate rumor never is a rumor that tends to be spread."

Shrugging helplessly, the stableman grunts, "Suit you'self, Mudda Teresa. Just wander up to his window and stick a hand through. Like this, lemme show ya…"

The stableman strides warily to the wolf's door, and taps his fingers along the pane. Whistling innocuously, he calls out Pepper's name once or twice with his drawling accent, cautiously sticking his head in to locate the wolf. A throaty roar echoes from inside the dark box, sounding almost like a cross between a dog's snarl and a leaf blower. The stableman recoils immediately, falling backwards onto his rump in his hurry. Instantly following the stableman's retreat from his cell, a grey wolf head appears at the window, flashing its white fangs threateningly. He scrambles through the wood shavings backwards until his back hits the opposite stable wall. The wolf in the stall he'd thumped against lifts its head absentmindedly, ears swiveling forward and then flicking back in nonchalance.

Bryon jumps in before the wolf can withdraw into the dark bowels of the stable, leaping forward with his palms raised nonthreateningly. He murmurs beneath his breath strange, foreign words, trying to calm the wolf.

The stableman's breathing becomes heavy, and his hands clutch wildly at the wood shavings.

Rolling blue eyes fix on Bryon, their malicious glare find his soothing gaze, and after a few more muffled snarls, the wolf stills. Something mildly akin to shock blankets Pepper's lupine expression. Flaring his nostrils and swiveling his ears to Bryon, the wolf focuses intensely on my uncle, his abrupt stillness allowing me my first real observations of his appearance.

His fur is dark, dark grey, the color of a menacing thundercloud, each hair tipped in the same velvety black as the midnight sky's diamond-studded veil. His muzzle is grizzled and his whiskers are silver, blatantly accenting the wolf's age. A trickle of crimson blood is dribbling over his black, slavering lips, the chilling crimson shade reminding me of the boy the wolf had mauled earlier this morning. His blue eyes are the brightest I've ever seen on an animal, nearly white in color, but sheathed in a gossamer-like sheen of powder blue. Laboring through each breath, the wolf slowly calms himself, and his pants grow less and less grotesque. The snarl curling his lips diminishing with every passing second, he appears to square his shoulders and curb his expression, like a man may shield his anger or swallow his rage.

"See?" my uncle murmurs, voice melodious and gentle as blades of grass rippling in a summer breeze, but firm and steely enough to prompt respect from all parties. Bryon moves towards the wolf with his lips in a hard line, gesturing with one hand for us all to get back. "He's calm." Without breaking the intense eye contact, Bryon grasps a type of lupine halter on a hook nearby, and approaches the wolf slowly. "Aren't you, Pepper? Nice and calm."

To my surprise, the wolf accepts the halter without much of a protest – he gnashes his teeth and rolls his eyes, but he doesn't try to rub it off, even as Bryon slips it over his ears and fastens a lead-line on a clip beneath is chin. Upon tightening the muzzle slightly, my uncle swings the door open and leads Pepper from the dark stable, tugging at the rope around Pepper's head.

My heart pulls as the wolf slowly emerges from the dark room, each one of his labored steps revealing more of his scrawny body. His fur is matted and oily, perhaps a side effect from living solely in one dank room with all excrements. A magnificent pair of steel grey wings peppered with brown and silvery flecks dangle around his paws, bedraggled feathers crooked and filthy, speckled with sawdust. The wolfs paws drag over the wood shavings, as if they won't work properly after so long cooped up in his cell. His mane, especially, is rugged and lopsided, and his belly's width is far from its preferred girth.

I glance at the stableman, coiled on the ground in fright. If the fear is so great amongst all the stablehands… it makes morbid sense that none of them had gathered the guts to clean out his stall, make sure he had plenty of food and water, maybe even brush out the mess of a tail hanging limply. How long had he been in that stall, cooped up, jailed in a cell instead of gamboling in the warm sunshine?

"Poor boy," I whisper, alarmed at seeing such an unkempt creature living alongside the other wolves with glossy coats and full stomachs. My words draw the wolf's intense blue eyes – they land on me, and his ears swivel my direction.

More than a few moments pass with our gazes locked, as if the wolf is unwilling to look away. His head cocks from inside the restricting halter, as if my presence stumps him, as if he cannot fathom why I am here in these musty stables. But before either he or I can mull for very long on the subject, a loud, energetic cry echoes down the stable's corridor.

"Bryon!" shouts an angel from the end of the stable, his tone euphoric. "Bryon, come here! You didn't tell me I was a grandfather! Look, my granddaughter! Her name is Paige, and she loves chocolate. Can't say I disagree with her! But why didn't you tell me? Bryon, I'm a _grandfather_!"

As the angel lopes closer, grinning broadly, there are a few things I can't help puzzling over. The first is his almost startling goldness – golden tan, golden eyes, shimmering golden wings, even golden hair like a lion's golden mane. He hadn't been nearly this sparkly drenched in water – now, he reflects light like a polished coin.

Unlike any other angel I've seen, Sariel also has an aged look about him. Not to say he doesn't maintain the Adonislike beauty of the angelic bastards, but there is something that seems weathered in his expression. Whether it's the smile crinkles around his eyes or the uneven stubble at his chin, whether it's the sparse silvery hairs at his part line or his crooked and dented nose, there's something sufficiently more fatherly in his appearance, as if having a family had changed him in some biological way.

Paige is riding on his shoulders, her arms wrapped around his forehead. She's smiling tautly as ever, her little cheeks flushed slightly with pleasure. Upon seeing me, she unravels a single hand and waves stiffly from her perch, as if gloating about her sudden height.

But perhaps the most interesting thing about Sariel is the wolf attached to his arm.

It's the same armored wolf I'd seen Thea riding earlier, with the same deep, dark brown color and the same shining silver eyes. Her fangs are buried into the Sariel's bicep, her jaws locked on his bone, reminding me of an inescapable mouse trap. Blood pools around her thick yellow fangs, dripping from her chin and dribbling down to her mane. As he strides down the aisle, Sariel drags the wolf with him as if it weighs nothing, even as it growls and shakes its head from side to side like a dog with a chew toy.

"Hello, Father," Bryon greets warmly, holding back Pepper with two fingers through his halter; the wolf had grown remarkably violent once more upon their approach. "You were slightly preoccupied for me to tell you anything last time we met. I'm glad you and Paige are getting along good. Even if Cara seems to have a bone to pick with you."

"Eh?" Sariel lifts his arm, slight annoyance discoloring his joy as he stares down Cara, the wolf gnawing on him. "Oh, her. I'm here to drop her off. She doesn't understand that the discovery of grandchildren means we don't play tough anymore. Overexcited, just like a baby Nephilim. But, Bryon" – Sariel's eyes shine again, like a child himself – "on the way here, I was talking to your mother, and Bryon, Paige can stay with us! Paige can be raised by us, by you!"

And, at this point, I realize that there truly is nothing to fear from this towering giant and his magnificently shimmering display. Though Sariel may have the makings of a fearsome warrior, though his eyes do show the warrior's seasoned experience as they dart about the stable to check for threats, there is nothing baleful in his demeanor or his attitude. More like a golden retriever than an avenging angel, I cannot find a fault in his broad grin and distinctively happy eyes.

Hugo chortles. "You're a funny angel, Sariel. I can see where Bryon gets it from."

"Paige and I get along well," Sariel continues, his golden eyes for the first time roving over Bryon's companions. "She's still a little spooked by my wings – can't move 'em, she'll freak – but that's acceptable, considering what the angelic bastards did to her." My eyebrows raise, wondering both how he knows such things about Paige and why an angel is discriminating against his own species. "But it's okay! As long as I keep the feathers folded up, she's okay! Oh, Thea was so excited, she went off to go brag and gather the Wives, and I'm out here trying to find Paige's sister!"

"She's got a sister, does she?" I can't help questioning, smiling innocently at him, hoping he'll believe I'm just a resident of Sercem Domu. "What's her name?"

"Uh…" Sariel's eyebrows pinch together, and, above his head, Paige clasps a hand to her mouth with shining eyes. "Penelope, I think. I was… Well… Daine told me, but I was a bit obsessed with Paige at the time," he admits bashfully.

"Hmm." I grin at him. "Well, I'm Penryn. Penryn Young. Nice to meet you." I lift a hand for him to shake, keeping my expression as curbed as possible as his mouth drops open with belated recognition.

"N-nice to meet you too," he stammers, taking my hand and shaking it with a firm grip. "Very nice. _Penryn_."

Bryon clears his throat, clearly attempting to keep his expression impassive as well. "Should we deal with our wolves before we continue to seek out Penelope?" he inquires, still holding the snarling Pepper back with one hand. "I don't think this one's too eager to do anything than get a good brushing." He stares down at the stableman, a slight hardness glinting in his bronze eyes. "Can I trust you to take Pepper here and give him proper living conditions instead of treating him like a leper? I take that back." Bryon's gaze grows more intense. "We treat lepers better than you have been treating this animal."

"I – I'll do my best, sir," the pathetic stableman promises, stumbling over his words nearly as much as Sariel. He scoots a little further from Pepper, eyes wide with fright.

"You'll do more than that, I hope," Bryon growls, but he doesn't wait for a response. He smiles at his father, gruffness disappearing, and jerks his head down the way. "Shall we?"

And the two are off with little more than exchanged smiles and promises of a quick return. I can't help noticing from behind how similar their physical builds are – broad shoulders that rotate slightly with each long-legged stride. The two are so alike that their heights are nearly identical as well.

As they depart, I can hear Sariel's voice echoing down the stables, loud as a boom of thunder.

"So, that's my other granddaughter? Penryn? I suppose that sounds a bit like Penelope… don't look at me like that! Spunky, isn't she? I like her! I like her a lot!"

* * *

I wave farewell to Sariel as he rises into the sky until he is no more than a golden star amongst the twinkling white. Thea waves back with a motherly smile, her now-familiar rounded face softening from its stony, impassive mask into glowing affection. Paige waves stiffly as well, encouraged by my own goodbye.

After a busied evening of fun and a warm sense of family she'd never truly experienced before, Paige looks weary and ready to sleep. Sariel had paraded her around all night at the great feast Thea had insisted upon, the golden angel wearing her as a sort of crown as he'd dashed about introducing Paige to all of his Watchers and all of the Wives. Paige had been enthralled about it all – Bryon and Bay had enforced the rule that all angelic wings had to be shut throughout the night at the door, and, in their eagerness to meet their leaders' granddaughter, the Watchers had all complied without question.

I had found myself by Thea's side through most of the feast, more than a little in awe of the woman. Just like Sariel had appointed himself as leader of the Watchers after they'd left Raffe's domain of control, Thea had done the same with her Wives when they'd grouped together after what many called "The Decade of Weeping Children". Theophilia is a tough, firm woman that usually wears an expression so sagaciously impassive it'd make you believe that she'd never break into a smile, which, as it happens, isn't true. After tailing her around through the fortress's massive dining room for a night, it'd become clear that she smiles perhaps more than her gregarious husband. And when she does smile, her face softens into a gentle, motherly expression, so different from her belligerent façade.

My belly had filled with scrumptious foods that I'd thought had become unavailable in World After, more than sating my ravenous hunger. The angels had torn into all sorts of meats and cheeses, whereas the women found themselves better acquainted with thick soups and bisques. Daisy, the cheerful artist I'd met first, made herself known several times as second-in-command of the Wives when she'd scolded boisterous Watchers quite scathingly as she'd hounded them from the corpulent tankards of ale. Bryon had mingled with everyone, refusing to choose a side or be dealt a stereotype, chatting and socializing all throughout the hall, his melodic laugh echoing off the rafters more often than anyone else's. Bay and Hugo were beneath such impartiality, Hugo preferring the company of the Wives, laughing and horsing around with Thea and me oftentimes, whereas Bay tended to socialize with the Watchers quite adeptly. Throughout the feast, Nephilim had dropped in occasionally. Emilio's red-cheeked mother had come more than once to the hall, bringing new platters of her delicious garlic lamb, if only to hear the Watchers' roars of glee every time they saw her face.

The Watchers themselves had been nothing like I'd considered them to be, very different from my concept of lusty angels looking for pleasure rather than companionship when they married their Wives. In fact, prolonged exposure to silly monkeys and cheerful Nephilim seems to have molded them into a bunch of winged goofballs. Aside from a few tipsy men, they don't especially seek out the alcohol, nor get too rowdy in their celebrations. They merely have innocent, honest fun, oh so different from the proud, licentious gatherings of all other angels.

Paige yawns and yanks on my pant leg, looking up at me with wide, questioning eyes. I pat her shoulder with a gentle smile, yawning myself.

"How about you head back to the room?" I whisper to her, leaning down and patting her shoulder comfortingly. "I'll be right behind you, and then we'll say goodnight, alright?"

Too tired to protest in any way, Paige plods off, slipping into our room without glancing back at me. I smile after her, without a doubt that she'll be sound asleep before I return. But before I turn in, there's one last person I feel a need to check on, one that didn't show up at the feast or give any sign that he's still been breathing these last few hours.

I rap my knuckles softly on Raffe's wooden door, not truly expecting a response this late into the night. The silence from inside prompts another slightly louder knock, but still, he does not stir from inside the room. My sole intention to check that he's in one piece, I turn the knob quietly, finding it unlocked, and push open the door.

Raffe's navy blue eyes are already fixed on me, illuminated by the liquid moonlight pouring in through the crack in the door. He's stretched out over the immaculately made bed with his hands and wings dripping over the sides, as if he had thrown himself down without a care. Dried sweat encrusts his bare chest and hardens the black strands of hair haloing his face.

"Penryn," he greets, voice thick with weariness. "At last. I assume you're here for the mutt?"

"Uh." My eyebrows pinch together, my lips pursing in bemusement. "What?"

"The mutt." Raffe lifts the hand closest to the door in explanation. His entire bed shakes as if something beneath it had rammed against the springs, and Scruffy's enthusiastic tongue and muzzle follows Raffe's hand. The wolf laps excitedly at Raffe's fingers, as if exulted by the sudden movement. At the end of the bed, a fluffy tail I hadn't noticed earlier wags viciously.

I can't help laughing exuberantly, amused by Scruffy's sleeping place. He must've plodded after Raffe and collapsed in the first cool place he'd discovered, which happened to be beneath Raffe's bed. To show his gratitude, the wolf must've taken to licking Raffe's dangling hand, completely unaware that his affections weren't appreciated.

"Actually, no," I chuckle. "I had no idea Scruffy was here. But I'll take him with me, if you want to lose your companion that badly."

Raffe hesitates, his pause making me wonder if he truly despises Scruffy the way he pretends to. "You'd better if you don't want me ripping his tongue off. Give him something to eat, while you're at it, so he won't lick some guy's fingers off. Some water, too."

My eyebrows raise. "Do you need something to eat, Raffe? I didn't see you at the feast tonight."

Raffe's gaze darkens, going nearly black with brooding emotions I don't try to comprehend. "The Watchers and I would hardly get along, and it would be impolite of me to spoil such a festive mood."

My skeptical glare moves over his chiseled chest, noting the dark stains of grit and grime, and towards the cuffs of his pants, where sand clings religiously to the fabric. His shoulders are cloaked in sunburns, raw and angry red. Though they'd grown tougher from his time on the ground with me, his feet are still far from calloused, and seem to be glazed in a fresh coat of blisters.

"Don't you think you should eat something?" I offer dubiously. "Or, I dunno, take a shower?"

"There will be plenty of time for hygiene in the morning," Raffe mutters, dismissing thoughts of ablution and pulling the hand Scruffy had been licking from the wolf's reach to drape his arm over his eyes, blocking out the moonlight. Scruffy, from beneath the bed, seems to be having a serious crisis on how to proceed with his adoration of Raffe.

Laughing slightly, I clap my hands to my thighs, grinning welcomingly at the wolf. "Cm'here boy!"

Scruffy breaks out in a delighted grin, and, before I can repeal my beckons, he stands, not bothering to slither out from beneath Raffe's bed first. His slender legs unfold lissomely, propelling him upwards with ample muscle. Raffe's eyes slam apart, his expression abruptly panicked as Scruffy first lifts the bed on his back, teetering and tottering like a boat caught in a storm. Then it tips backwards towards Scruffy's rear end as he strides forward in my direction, the two legs of the bed slamming against the floor with a jerk that unsettles Raffe. His fists curl around the sheets for security, but it doesn't stop him from spilling from the bed like the rest of his pillows. With a pained "oof" he hits the floor, hidden from my view by the tilted bed.

Responding to Raffe's grunt, Scruffy realizes the chaos he'd caused – grin faltering, his head swivels around, searching for the source of the pained exclamation. At the sight of what I assume is Raffe limp on the ground, Scruffy yips excitedly and pounces on him, tongue flailing. All four legs of the bed crash back to the floor.

Raffe snarls out profanities harshly. A mixture of horror and delight brawling deep in my stomach, I dash around the bed to find Raffe writhing on the ground in an attempt to shield his face as Scruffy attacks the angel. His black wings flail about, slapping at Scruffy's sides – but the scythes are sheathed, so there's not a chance that Raffe would be able to do anything more than annoy Scruffy, a fact I'm certain he's aware of.

I can't help laughing, now that they're obviously both safe, as Raffe struggles against Scruffy's persistent, slobbery tongue. He shoots me an evil glare through the drool coating his face, a glare that only lasts a second before Scruffy's next barrage.

One of Raffe's kicking feet catch me unawares in the darkened room, his foot colliding with my shin. Caught off guard, I don't have the time to regain my balance nor truly recognize what's happening or truly to do anything more than cry out with surprise as the world whisks around me.

I hit the wood floor with a solid crack, and pain shafts from my hand.

All playful growls and colorful swearing cuts off immediately. In the blur of my periphery, I see Scruffy being batted aside. The next thing I know, Raffe's arms are lifting me from the ground, supporting my head in one of his hands, tilting my gaze towards his. Raffe is a dark silhouette, the only color aside from the beige ceiling being his blue eyes.

"Penryn!" he husks, urgency sending notes of strain through his voice. "Penryn, are you alright? Did you hit your head? Can you see clearly?"

The soft huffing of a canine nose puffs in my ears, and whiskers tickle my forehead. Scruffy snorts and pulls back, sitting obediently behind Raffe.

My coherence comes back abruptly, and my cheeks flush with heat as I realize that Raffe is not only clutching me close to his chest, cradling me in his lap, but that concern brightens the color of his eyes, concern so wonderful it tightens my chest with pain.

"Yeah," I mutter sheepishly, glancing away from his gaze to keep things from becoming too awkward. "Yeah, I'm okay. Just klutzy. 'S all."

Raffe halts my attempts to rise from his lap with a single hand, his blazing eyes still glued to mine. "Not quite yet, missus. You're sure you didn't hit your head?" His fingers probe the base of my scalp, leaving scolding trails as they filter through my hair.

"No. No, nothing, I – it's nothing, Raffe." My cheeks feel even warmer, and I fix on a point somewhere above Raffe's head, studying it intensely, as if I can't register the gentle fingers slowly being pulled from the base of my scalp, combing through the length of my hair instead of merely exiting.

At last convinced, Raffe releases a massive sigh, rolling his blue eyes as if the ordeal had been a great annoyance to him. "You're not allowed to do that anymore. You hear?"

"What?" I challenge, grateful for the familiar note of Raffe's lazy arrogance. "Fall down?" Though I know I shouldn't, though I am perfectly aware of how odd it may be, I can't help subtly breathing deeper; beneath the layer of odorous sweat and grime, Raffe's masculine fragrance is hidden, and the sour saltiness of his perspiration has almost a positive effect on its woodsy smell. The intoxicating scent cocoons me, making it difficult to focus.

"Not just fall down; fall down and _shout_," Raffe corrects, his grave tone painting the picture of a very punishable crime. "Don't do it. Making a racket, slamming against the floorboards! If you're not more careful, people will think we're hiding a body or something."

_Sure,_ I can't help but think. _That's exactly what you were thinking just then._

"But we're not," I point out, toying with the concept of sitting up again. "I think I have the right to fall down and shout as much as I like. We were born with basic rights, you know."

"Yes, but, you see, giving me a heart attack takes away some of my basic rights," Raffe explains with condescending patience. "And that's not fair. Not ethical."

Abandoning all pretenses of civil conversation, I meet his eyes. "Do you really think that you'd get a heart attack from me taking a little tumble?" I ask, my otherwise deadpan streaked with incredulity.

Raffe's face turns stony. "I've seen people put out to pasture for lesser things, Penryn. The damsel shrieked as she fell, which is enough to raise anyone's hairs, and then she hit the floor with a great big smack. Groaned a bit, too. Moreover, I'd been the one to kick you. Blame would've fallen on me with Scruffy as my only witness and – well, I'd have been hard-pressed to find a soul willing to believe in accidents around here."

I understand his concerns, but they're not what I'd secretly hoped I'd hear. Nodding in secretly disappointed comprehension, I once more, attempt to sit up. Like before, Raffe's hand stops me and gently pushes me back down.

"Where," he growls, throaty tones absolving any crestfallen emotions I may have hosted, "do you think you're going, exactly?" He tilts his head to one side. "Hmm?"

Pulse spiking, I meet Raffe's lofty questioning gaze with wide eyes. "I have to get back to Paige," I explain breathlessly, failing to keep my cadence under tabs.

"And I have to get back to sleeping." Raffe purses his lips, as if faced with quite a dilemma. "How unfortunate. I suppose our paths cleave from this point, Evil Princess. I only ask that you'll remember me as you go forth to do great things."

"What are you talking about?" I wonder, but his embrace's firm hold around me has lessened, and I sit up in his lap. Our heads are level, our faces close, breaths intermingling in the cool night air. I cannot help but notice how Raffe's hair, spiked with the rigid salt of his own sweat, falls into his face as if he'd just emerged from a modeling agency's salon. The dirt smeared in the shadows of his cheekbones seems to emphasis them even more in the dark of the night. As a flush once more colors my cheeks, I wish I hadn't obtained the knowledge that Raffe can see perfectly in the dark because keen shafts of unease and mild shame splinter my gut.

"You're embarking on an epic quest, aren't you?" Raffe chuckles, his chest reverberating with his laughter. My skin prickles where the vibrations brush it. "It's what I've been told. A dangerous journey through the courtyard and into your room where the treasure awaits you – a nice, neat bed" – he casts a semi-annoyed glance towards the contents of his own bed and their graveyard on the floor where Scruffy had dumped them – "and a cheerful sister. Going all alone like you are, how could I not sympathize?"

"You're acting really weird," I chuckle, shaking my head, smirking. "Do you want me to bring Scruffy with me or not?"

Scruffy, who'd been in the process of crawling beneath the bed, evidently raises his head at his name, and slams it into the top of the springs. From beneath Raffe's mattress, his pitiful howl sounds, a wailing bay of pain.

After rolling his eyes with overly exaggerated annoyance, Raffe hesitates, and a true battle of emotions plays in his eyes. "Leave him," he decides, voice as if attempting to not put the slightest strain on the choice. "I can't risk an innocent – albeit annoying – canine on a doomed mission."

"Okay, well, wish me good fortune, I'm getting up."

Laughing softly, I push myself from Raffe's lap. My laughter cuts off abruptly as, in an attempt to boost myself while rising from the ground, I blindly lay my hand on Raffe's thigh, horrifyingly close to his hip, and wrap it around him before I get the sense of what I'm grasping. Mortified, I quickly release his warm skin, and find a better handhold on the flat ground before pushing myself hurriedly from the ground.

Raffe's laugh is louder than any of his others had been. "You're as red as a tomato, you know that?"

"Sorry," I breathe. "I didn't see – I had my back turned."

"Don't apologize." The lithe flex of muscle and beautiful sinew glints in the moonlight, and, before I can obtain myself and channel my ogling gaze elsewhere, Raffe has risen to an almost uncomfortable proximity beside me. "There's nothing to apologize for. Now, would you like a chivalrous escort to your room, or do you think you can find it yourself?"

"Think I can manage," I mumble as Raffe edges back to give the two of us breathing room. I give him one last farewell smile, my expression much softer than I'd intended, and then head awkwardly towards the door, eyes glued to the floor.

As I pass Raffe's bed, Scruffy's tail thumps against the floor – he'd wormed his way back beneath the metal frame, and now is hidden beneath it once more. I can't help grinning – though I find it hard to believe that such a large wolf can fit in a space so small, I imagine it's nice and dark down there, with no one to bother you.

"Bye, Scruffy," I chuckle, and, at his name, the tail thumps a bit louder.

I don't pause again until I'm at the door. It's still open, the moonlight a silver ribbon that leaks into the shadowed room through the crack, the luminance revealing the gleam of sweat-encrusted skin and the watery shine of the comely blue eyes I fear I have become far too acquainted with.

"Bye, Raffe," I lilt, smiling into the dark recesses of the room. "Sweet dreams. Don't let the bed wolf bite."

Raffe doesn't respond. But, with the moonlight that drapes over him like a kind's regal garbs, I can see the dance of shadows over his face and know that he has smiled, that those lips have half-cocked, that the very corners of his mouth have perked for my sake and my sake solely. That, in itself, holds enough of a farewell for me.

If I had known the night that awaited me, I might've stayed a bit longer with Raffe instead of succumbing to the darkness of sleep.

* * *

**What to write, what to write…**

**There shall be some action soon, to those getting bored with all this talking and building up. If not next chapter, the following one. Understood? Great. Brilliant.**

**Hey, just thought I'd say thanks to all the reviewers out there. You guys are awesome. Every last one.**

**POLL: Here's a thought: Scruffy is "in love" with a madwoman (madwolf?), right? Hugo, the one he spends the most time with, has the occasional bout of depression. When Penryn had been distressed about the cherub's bite, he didn't wail or whine initially, he tried to console her, he made sure she was okay before he wailed or whined. So now, he's chilling with Raffe… what could that possibly mean?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	27. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Chapter Twenty Six**

It starts out like any other of my more recent dreams, with what I believe is a scene of the past.

_Audiat struggles, screeching slightly. Her teeth are bared in a malicious grimace, her red eyes wide with terror. Both of her arms are being gripped almost lewdly by two male grim-faced male angels, and her wings splayed out like an insect on display by another pair. I notice that, if their hands accidently stray to areas on her body that should be forbidden, they do not rush to remove them. _

_Hovering a slight way above the struggling Audiat and her guards is Raffe, his face more cold than I had ever seen it. There is a steely glint of fury buried in his nearly black eyes, and his eyebrows are furrowed in anger. _

_Audiat, managing to lash out and claw down one of the angels' faces. "Why are you doing this?" she shrieks, eyes imploring Raffe for an answer, her terror lifting her high voice into shrill tones. _

_"You know very well." Raffe's voice is deathly quiet. "You, seductress, are at God's mercy. I doubt the Lord is smiling."_

_"What?" Audiat screeches, struggling to wrench her wings back. "Why do you even care, Raphael? Is this about Simon? You are inventing something from nothing! Nothing at all!"_

_Simon, I remember in the deep recesses of my memory, was the name Bryon took as he'd posed as Raffe's servant. My chest tightens with horror. _

_Raffe's face twists bitterly, his scowl deepening. "Simon has served me well these past years, you whore. Never did I imagine him being stolen from his own mind, least of all by _you_. I regret having to execute him a thousand times more than I regret sending you to the Pit. Have fun in Hell." Raffe waves a hand towards his men, dark satisfaction distorting his otherwise handsome face. "Do it."_

_My horror exceeds new disgusting levels as Audiat screams with agony. One of the angels had planted his hand square on her back and yanked his wing backwards, causing an awful scrape of flesh and bone. After having done his duty, the angel retreats with wide flaps of his speckled roan wings, becoming the audience of a gruesome display rather than a torturer. _

_Audiat's anguished gaze is murderous as she glares defiantly at Raffe – instead of crippling Audiat or breaking her spirit, the dislocation of her wing only seems to kindle a building rage deep in her red eyes, much like Raffe after the removal of his wings. _

_"You arrogant bastard." Audiat spits at Raffe. "How dare you! How dare you lay a finger on me!"_

_"Technically," Raffe drawls, "I wasn't the one to do it." He waves his hand again, eyes shining – though he has malice sparkling there, black as midnight, it pales to the rage of Audiat's fiery gaze. _

_"You are at the mercy of the Lord," Raffe intones, blinking lazily, a cruel smile pulling at the corners of his lips. _

_And then his angels drop Audiat. _

_For the first time, I get a glimpse of how high in the air Raffe and his goons had been – their wings had been scraping the stars, with a pool of blue at their feet and an ocean bottom of fluffy white clouds. My point of view tails Audiat as she falls, kicking, writhing, screaming, through the air towards the ground. _

_But as she spirals downwards, something begins to feel wrong – not with what I'm seeing, or something wrong with Audiat, but something in my own head. It feels as if someone is slowly sliding a shard of cold metal into my temple, slipping it through my brain. As the headache continues, my mind feels only colder, an icy-hot sort of pain. It waxes and wanes as she rolls through the sky, shrieking curses towards Raffe, but in its worst intensity, a sound resembling radio static muffles the sound of Audiat's screeches. _

_The pain grows as Audiat nears the clouds, and her attempts at flying frantically only adding to the agony. The cold pressure ices through my brain, and the static never ceases, half-drowning her cries. In the exact moment she passes through the cloudy blanket, my mind is clear, as if the condensation can dispel whatever is happening to me. _

_As a bronze blur slams into Audiat the second she leaves the downy clouds, throwing her plummet off by a few feet, the headache is slight and the static is nonexistent, allowing me as clear a view as I can receive. _

_The stranger, someone with bronze wings attached to their arms, locks his legs around Audiat for balance, and his hands go to her wings. Audiat bucks and shrieks, her panic doubling as the stranger grasps her wing's knuckle. She whips a single arm around, grabbing one of the man's flat, long, metal feathers, ripping it from its binding chains – considering only a dozen of the massive plates arm each wing, it might be a problem should he need to fly again. _

_Somehow, despite her tussling, the stranger manages to maneuver Audiat's wing back into place midair. It slides back into its socket with a sickening pop, and Audiat gasps with relief. _

_She pounds her beautiful red wings robustly, pausing her plummet abruptly, only a hundred yards from the ground. From this point, I see that, on Earth, a seam had split in through the plain she hovers above, an unnatural canyon of wicked, supernatural black, like an inky mouth sipping at the air. As I watch, it seems to widen, sucking up a tumbling morsel greedily. _

_ With his momentum, the strange, bronze-winged man is tossed easily from Audiat's back, taking a fistful of the downy feathers around her wing's joint with him as he falls. Now, he seems to be struggling to fly, but without the crucial feather Audiat had nicked, he can't do anything but slow his fall. _

_As the stranger plummets closer and closer to the cavernous lips, the static grows at an alarming rate, my vision fuzzing and ears nearly giving out to the hiss and crackle. My head is screaming and, if I had lips, they would be amplifying its shouts. I can only muster the concentration to half-pay attention to what happens next. _

_Audiat lifts the bronze feather in front of her face and gives a horrified squeak, her eyes rounding with horror, and cups her mouth. "Bryon," she whispers, and then tucks her wings against her body, tipping in the air like a missile, and rocketing after him. _

_The stranger is so close to the Pit – and that's when things get a little bit odder. The moment pauses, like a scratched DVD, and allowing me to mull over my uncle's terrified face as he gropes at the air, desperately flapping with his artificial wings – half dazed with the icy pain drilling in my skull, I can't help but wonder if they were made by Hugo or some other genius of the time. _

_Though the paused second lasts not very long, not very long at all, a cold voice like an axehead being dragged over cement grates in my ears. "IF YOU FAIL." A stone fist clutches my heart, even as the events continue to unfold, this time, the static being pierced with visions, images, slowing Bryon's fall. _

_As he whips back his arms in an attempt to scoop the air, the static blanks out his face and instead shows little Belle, her face bathed in the red light of sunset, screeching and dashing away from something, casting glances over her shoulders. Out of nowhere, a silver sword impales her, skewering her from above crookedly, pinning the little Nephilim to the ground – it's a sword I know far too well, and, although I don't see who is wielding Pooky Bear, I can guess easily enough. "IF YOU FAIL." _

_The pain in my head is unbearable, the frigid pressure building beneath my bones, as if my brain is going to either freeze solid or explode. _

_The next image is one of my mother, sitting beyond a barricade of bodies, all of the corpses marked with her signature lipstick runes. The carcasses have no preference of species; in fact, amongst the angel and the human, I'm rather sure there's a wolf, a cinnamon-colored wolf with such familiar coppery eyes glazed and lifeless. "IF YOU FAIL."_

_For milliseconds, we return to Bryon and he draws ever closer to the blackness, each inch he drops bringing on the pain with more intensity. A whispering chorus rings in my ears, layers upon layers of words being uttering in the same moment, forming an unintelligible mass of hisses by the cold, grating voice. _

_The static flashes over my vision, bringing momentary images of burning and crying children and smoke staining a pair of snowy white wings grey before flickering back to the dancing static specks. Instead of a blatant roar in my mind, the whispers all seem conjoined, hissing murmurously, "If you fail… if you fail, if you fail…," repeatedly, overlapping and gradually growing in volume until they're practically shrieking. _

_Bryon falls further, his last yell of absolute terror piercing momentarily through the static before he falls quiet once more, drowned out by the maniacal whispers. The static overwhelms his face, and this time, I'm watching Sariel. _

_The golden-winged angel is matted with dirt and grime and blood, his shoulders hunched and his feathers dull. Emptiness occupies his once-bright eyes, as if the graves he kneels before had consumed all his soul once the inhabitants had departed from our world. A single tear leaves a clean path in its wake through the dust coating his cheeks, perhaps the only shining thing he bears. "IF YOU FAIL."_

_A last desperate flap scrapes the air, the lopsided bronze feathers attached to a beast pawing at the wind, clinging to the slightest chance of life. Over the whispers and static dancing in my periphery, I see Bryon's gaze fix on Audiat, so high above, silhouetted by the sun and beating her wings once more. And then, gazing up at the she-angel he'd saved from the fate he'd doomed himself to, Bryon seems to soften slightly, his bronze eyes melting in the heat of the sun. Tucking his arms – and his wings – by his side, Bryon plummets the last twenty feet with the dignity of a sacrificial Prince Charming. _

_Static and its grey flickers bring Paige stumbling down a snowing alley, dragging her bare feet over the ice, blanketed in a layer of snowflakes. As she trips and falls against the alley floor, the snow continues to fall, sheathing her little body in white and sealing her off from the rest of the world. Paige makes no move to rise from her algid coffin. "IF YOU FAIL."_

_The bronze gleam flares up with the burning sun, the reflection as bright as a star itself. It almost seems like a final farewell, that bronze blaze, winking into the sky – perhaps it reaches Audiat's gaze, so that she knows she was the last thing he saw before he plummeted into the Pit. Or perhaps he's more focused on the beautiful sky above him – the puffy clouds swirl and shift, and beyond them, the blue atmosphere seems almost surreal, it's so vivid, with the sunlight shafting through, molding around Audiat's black shape from above. Even the susurrus voices echoing in my ears cannot distract me from the elegance of such a moment, even the agony in my brain cannot detract from the beauty of a fallen moiety. _

_A final string of images flashes in my eyes as Bryon is slowly swallowed by inky black, each one more hideous than the last – Hugo dangling from bloody shackles, red liquid dripping down his arms. Audiat being forced onto a bed by a stronger male angel, his sloppy kisses tracing down her neck regardless of the little she-angel's struggles. Obi's head mounted on a spear behind a fat pig with a juicy red apple in its mouth, the shadows of socializing angels flickering on the wall behind it. Humans wearing only the most destitute of clothing bound in leather, an angel's whip cracking in the air, goading his bone-thin slaves forward. "IF YOU FAIL."_

_The final metal feather of Bryon's slips into the blackness, and my world shifts into utter pain. _

_Though it's a dream, the icy throbbing in my forehead feels strangely real, as if a nightmare of this potency can affect reality. The pain drilling at my temples is unbearable. Darkness drapes over my vision as if I, too, had fallen into the Pit; instead of the cold voice, a hollow ringing noise is all that one can hear. The headache grows so terrible I can feel myself screaming, feel my mouth open and the muscles in my throat straining to reach louder notes – but am I really yelling? There is nothing but the ringing in my ears and the pain that ever grows in my head, there is nothing but the darkness engulfing me and the cold nothingness that I am. _

_Am I dead? Can a nightmare kill a person? Can a nightmare drive a person mad? If I really am screaming, why is nobody waking me up? Is it a dream at all? _

_Abruptly, in the midst of the shadows and the never-ending ringing in my ears and the tremendous pain about to explode beneath my skullcap, another voice sounds, this one perhaps the exact opposite of any voice I'd heard before. I don't quite hear it, either – rather, my mind recoils from the shock of its thick, hearty bellows. Some of my headache resolves simply by hearing his booming voice, so thunderous and mighty. The regal thrums of this voice are so much more alluring, so much more powerful than the grating down below. _

_"YOU WILL NOT FAIL."_

_I open my eyes to see the black turning into static, the static turning into color. The blackness of the Pit is closing its sucking lips, sealing them once more. The splitting seam into Hell itself is stitching itself back closed, but the tear can't shut before something escapes from the dark confines. _

_Perhaps it had dove after Bryon when my vision had been black. Perhaps instead of Audiat framed against the sun, it'd been this one. Or maybe it'd emerged from Hell itself. Whatever had happened, I am grateful for it now. _

_A beast as black as the shadows rises from the darkness with sweeping flaps of his snowy white wings, rocketing from the Pit with grace and speed. His jaws clutch the scruff of Bryon's shirt, and with each flap, he carries Bryon higher, further from the Pit. Eyes as pale and blue as the vivid sky shine impassively, dragging Bryon closer and closer to the sun. _

_"NO!" The frigid voice returns, its furious screech bone-chilling. "FATE MUST NOT BE TEMPERED WITH; YOU MAY FAIL. PREPARE YOURSELF FOR THE CONSEQUENCES."_

_My mind had not known true pain before – now, both warm voice and cold battle one another within the tight confines of my noggin. How I am aware of this, I don't know. I simply know that one presence's company brings pain and nightmares and a hellish headache, whereas the other's brings warmth and relief from the pain dealt. The pain it causes me doesn't seem to matter to them, though – the cold voice whispers away, while the warm doesn't utter a word, but I can feel them. _

_I scream louder than ever. My brain is going to burst; I swear it is. After all, a bone can only hold so much pressure. The blackness has returned, the complete, pitch blackness, and both of the voices' strengths __do not seem to lessen. They ram against one another with bullish tenacity, mental snarls echoing around in my skull. The two forces seem to grapple for control of me, for control of my dreams, two beasts pitted against one another in the tight confines of my mind. _

_It's an impasse. _

_Drowning in pain, I attempt to ignore the voices, the whispers, and the cries until one of them shouts out my name. _

* * *

"_Penryn!_" Raffe's nearly desperate shout is almost enough for me to wedge my eyes open. His rough hands cupping my face, however, make me reluctant to do anything that might disturb their placement. Therefore, it isn't him who wakes me up, it's the headache and its throbbing agony. I rest my case.

Light spills into my untried eyes. I groan sleepily, a groan that quickly transforms into a wail of anguish as the headache grows a thousand times more intense. I try to curl up in on myself, to clutch my head with my hands as if I could make some difference on the pain.

"Penryn!" Bryon's shuddering sigh of relief brings back sharp memories of his plummet from the sky, and of the black beast that'd risen from the depths. "Oh, thank God in Heaven and all his goodness! Can you hear me?"

I don't respond, cuddling against the warm bare chest I've been presented to, relishing the heat it provides with its muscular arms wrapped tightly around me. Ignoring the world, I try to focus on calming the tempest raging inside.

"Penryn?" Raffe's voice husks and the chest I huddle against vibrates mightily, but his tone more gentle than I've ever heard it to be. The softness of it sends shivers down my spine and hot prickles over my skin. "Penryn, what's wrong? Does something hurt? What's the matter?"

I try to summon my head from its warm cocoon against his heart – the constant _tha-thumpa tha-thumpa tha-thumpa _drumbeat that keeps Raffe breathing is bizarrely beautiful, and it raptures me in a way that the conversation simply cannot compare to. However, the memories it awakens causes a tear to trickle down my cheek.

"Penryn?" he's more alarmed now, but the gentleness is the same – gentle and velvety, so soft I could sink into it. Such a relief, the soft, tender voice, after the booming and the grating. No side effects of agony, no additional torture. Merely Raffe's mellifluous voice and his gentle cadence. I sigh against him, my breath shuddering, and another tear spills over. Much to my horror, my shoulders shake slightly.

Another hand touches my arm, the fingers soft and slender. "Penryn," murmurs Hugo, "seriously, give us an answer. We need to know what's wrong so we can fix it or beat the shit out of it."

"Head," I croak into Raffe's chest, finding the words difficult to get out, as if I'd been screaming for hours on end without so much as a drink of water. "Hurts… so… bad…" My shoulders shake increasingly violently, but I bite back sobs, not allowing anything more than tears to reach the surface.

"Her head," Raffe informs. He bundles me against him, rocking me gently from side to side, his lips brushing my hair as he speaks. "Her head hurts, really badly."

"Shit," Hugo mutters, the thump of his footsteps carrying him from one side of the room to the other in endless pacing – I can hear another someone quickly exit and shut the door behind them, maybe to go get a doctor or something.

"Don't cuss in front of Paige," Raffe murmurs, one of his hands stroking hairs from my face, even the soggy ones that'd gotten caught in my stream of tears. His other hand still cups my cheek, gently guiding my tears into his chest where no one can see them.

"Why…?" I whisper, trying to look into his eyes. "You're… here…"

"Hush," Raffe chides softly, pressing me against him once more. "I came because you were screaming. You sounded like you were in pain, like you were being tortured. Were you being hurt, Penryn?"

I hesitate – then nod into his skin, still attempting to stem the tears. There had been an intruder in the dream, for sure. Two intruders, to be precise, but one had been particularly malicious, more set on waging war with the colder influence.

"By what?" Soothed by the vibrations in his chest, I feel myself relaxing with Raffe's every word, and the headache lessens more and more. "What's been hurting you, Penryn?"

"I – I – I don't know!" I whisper into his chest.

"Ryn-ryn?" croons Paige's voice. I can hear a squeak of springs traversing over the bed, and then her little hands are brushing my hair from my face with Raffe's. "Ryn-ryn?"

"Baby," I whisper, pulling back slightly to catch a glimpse of her pale skin and stitched up face. My lips quirk back in a smile at her wide, concerned eyes fringed with her long, doelike lashes.

"Bryon?" Hugo's voice sounds from another corner of the room, voice puzzled and not addressing me. "What are you doing, man, peeking out of the blinds? This is not the time to watch the sunset, treehugger."

"She woke up the moment the first drop of sunlight lit up the sky," Bryon murmurs distractedly, his voice barely carrying. "That's trademark of a demonic influence."

I freeze in Raffe's arms, stiffening with terror at my uncle's words – a stone settles in the pit of my stomach, and I am reminded of how much more aggressive the static and the voices had become, nearer and nearer I drew to the Pit.

"She started shivering," Raffe reports, not raising his voice from the tender cadence. The hand cupping my face trails over my skin down to my shoulders, and he rubs at the tensed muscles, working down my back in massaging circles.

"But it couldn't be a demon," Hugo whispers, his voice still not soft enough to be inaudible. "I mean… she's not possessed or anything, and, unlike angelic bastards, demons aren't just messenger boys."

"She's strong." Bryon sighs deeply, sounding more like an old man with a weary soul than usual. "There probably was a demon or something along those lines" – the rustle of shuffling blinds comes again and I picture him staring at the rising sun, puzzling over the orange and pink cresting over the mountains – "and she fended it off until daybreak."

"Not alone," I whisper. Raffe repeats what I'd said again.

"Penryn?" Bryon's footsteps draw him closer to me. "Can you tell us what happened? Is your head getting better with the sun? It should be, but if it's not, we need to act immediately."

"I can talk." Swallowing bravely, I pull my face from its protective cove and meet my uncle's eyes. It's not a bad alternative, and I can't help but wonder what would've happened had I met his gaze sooner – the bronze there is soft, warm, and glowing. Even Raffe's soft cadence has not the effect of the almost fatherly aura Bryon holds.

Bryon kneels in front of the bed, his cloak fluttering around his feet as he brings our eyes to the same level. "Are you absolutely certain? You don't want to strain yourself."

"Yeah." I swallow, ignoring the painful tightness in my throat. "I want to know what… what happened… why you're all here…"

Raffe's arms tighten imperceptibly around me, and he leans his face against my hair, as if my requests bring things to his memory he'd rather forget. Bryon, too, shifts his weight, and Hugo pauses from his pacing about in the corner.

"I was retrieved by Paige," thrums Bryon, the bronze power of his gaze captivating me as he speaks. "She was frantic, because you'd started thrashing about as if you were falling, and she couldn't wake you. By the time I'd reached the scene, you were still, your head clutched in your hands and your body curled around it. You were groaning lowly. It was…" The vendetta of his atypical honesty and his fierce desire to shield me from any worry plays out in his eyes, their battles sparking along the bronze gleams. "It was frightening, Penryn. Truly frightening. I couldn't wake you, and I'd brought smelling salts with me in case it'd been a horrendous nightmare of some sort."

"He fetched me about then, wondering if I knew what was happening," Hugo pipes up. The boy slips two fingers in between the blinds sheathing the windows, allowing light as golden as a sunflower's petals to spill through the cracks where they band over Raffe's skin like a tiger's stripes.

Bryon nods, the orange light haloing his head, turning his hair as bronze as his eyes. "I had hoped he'd know what was going on, what with his research. But then you started screaming."

"It was awful," Raffe admits, his lips at my ear. "You didn't stop, didn't falter even as I screamed your name, and only occasionally gasped for air. You started thrashing again, throwing out balled fists and almost hitting Hugo across the jaw –"

"Almost?" Hugo barks in disbelief, rubbing a purple spot on his face reproachfully.

"She grazed you," Raffe dismisses, not so much as glancing in the boy's direction. "Quit milking it. But, needless to say, before we had anyone else whining about broken bones, I had to… restrain you."

"He tackled you," Hug informs, still seeming miffed about the bruise. "Pinned your arms by your sides and put his weight on your knees so you wouldn't kick. Unfortunately, though, angels don't weigh much, so you managed you managed to hit _good_ him in the babymaker a few times."

"She doesn't need to know the gory details," Raffe growls.

"So," Bryon continues before Raffe and Hugo can continue with their feud, rushed to head off Hugo's response, "there you were, screaming in terror for two hours. We all thought you'd go hoarse, but, evidently, that was not the case. It wasn't until daybreak that you stirred, awakening –"

"With this really creepy gasp," Hugo gushes. "It was like the first breath of a vampire come back to life creepy. Like – like you'd just been drowning or something. Pigeon-Bat _jumped out of his skin_. If I hadn't been so very, very worried about your health, I would've been laughing my head off. And I still snorted a bit. _That funny_."

A pause follows this remark, a pause allowing for Raffe's reverberating growl to thunder through the room, a pause to heighten the coppery competitive gleam Hugo hosts as he glares the angel down, a pause for Bryon to screw up his face and look from Raffe to Hugo as if wondering who he should aid, and a pause for me to ponder their words.

Bryon's fall had felt like mere seconds, to be truthful, the images and people moving over my vision lasting even shorter. But the time of pain, the time when I'd been submerged in the blackness of Hell – I don't think it had been hours, but could it have been? The pain, never increasing or decreasing in ferocity, could've facilely jotted out the restraints of time, or perhaps the darkness had blanketed my vision so completely I had no shadows I could watch creeping over the ground to mark the passing hours. Such a length of the torture would explain my aching brain.

Finally breaking the silence, Bryon questions, "Penryn, what happened? Just tell us what you remember."

I swallow, knowing this question was coming. "Remember when I said I have… funny dreams?"

Bryon nods his agreement, bronze lights flaring up once more. "Dreams that showed you things that happened in the past, correct?"

"It started out as one of those," I explain begrudgingly. I'm not sure I want to say exactly what I'd seen – the startling brutality of Raffe sending Audiat and ultimately _Bryon_ tumbling into Hell still blazes in the back of my mind, frightening enough without the additional influences. Besides, in a moment of sudden camaraderie between the two, reawakening sour memories of their past relations and grudges seems unwise.

"Penryn?" Raffe prompts, cuddling me closer as if to keep me in a protective shell.

"What did you see?" Bryon murmurs, tilting his head, a companionable smile playing over his lips for the first time.

"It – it was when…" I swallow, locking my eyes on the band of muscle bound in caramel hide wrapped around me. My voice grows quiet, hushed by the uncertainty of how the news will be taken. "It was when Raffe tossed Audiat down into the Pit."

As I'd anticipated, an awkward, grisly silence coats the room in thick, tarry discomfort. Raffe's arms stiffen around me, his hand freezing on my hair. Hugo sucks in his cheeks, eyebrows shooting up, as if the boy's realizing just how sticky the situation is going to get.

However, Bryon seems unfazed by the time he'd plunged into Hell. "Go on."

"At first, there wasn't anything." I cast another uneasy glance towards the arms around me, uncertain upon whether I should try to relax Raffe or worm from his grasp. "Audiat was – she was fighting and snarling, trying to throw off the other angels. Then her wing got dislocated" – I had not known it was possible for Raffe to tense up more – "and she sort of hung there and then she… then they released her." If Raffe gets any more rigid, he'll be Pinocchio.

"This is getting awkward," Hugo mutters, shaking his head and escorting himself to a corner of the room. I can't help but agree with him – though there is no physical change in Bryon's appearance, his aura betrays his rising hackles.

"Go on," Bryon murmurs again.

"And then… as she was falling, trying to flap… it started coming." I shiver, and the movement seems to restore some of Raffe's flaccidness. "It started out sort of as a static sound, kind of…"

"Fluctuating?" Hugo provides helpfully.

"Fluctuating," I agree, smiling frailly at him. "But as she fell further, it started affecting my vision, too, with the same staticy thing. My head" – I lift a hand and press it against the ever-dulling pain at my temple – "started hurting then, like someone was filling it with ice, like a chilly headache. It hurt pretty damn bad," I admit.

"The closer she drew to the Pit, the more the static seemed to affect you?" Bryon verifies, his brow scrunched as if something isn't quite adding up.

"Well, yeah." I frown. "Yeah, I guess so. And when you fell in the Pit, it was just… awful."

"Bizarre." Hugo taps his fingers on his chin, staring up at the ceiling. "Hmm. Static is understandable, I suppose, I always compare telepathy to having your own radio station to newbies and it could be possible that there's static on some of those channels. Demonic possessions have very little to do with dreams, though, and I can't see why a demon would be affected by the dream-Pit – they kind of just turn people into zombies. Continue from where you last left off, why don't you?"

"The static seemed to sort of falter when Bryon helped get Audiat's dislocated wing back in place, midair, with his metal wings. Like the thing was shocked or something by him. But once Bryon started plummeting, everything sort of got worse. And then… well, it's weird to say it out loud…"

"I am old, very old," Bryon chuckles, smirk toying with his lips. "I would appreciate anything surprising me. Tell me in the most accurate way you can what you experienced."

"In the static, I saw things, people moving and talking, all sort of like warnings," I explain. "Many different of things. They're kind of fuzzy – I remember seeing all sorts of things, but I can't really grasp any of them. But I do remember that they were horrible, each and every one, and that they were all tailed with an awful voice, yelling, 'If you fail.' Closer to Hell, there were whispers with the same voice all overlapping and rasping out things that I couldn't hear."

Silence ensues. I half-consider continuing on my tale without waiting for a response, but Hugo halts any conclusion I dare make.

"That doesn't sound like demonic possession of any type," he decides, scrunching his face and staring up at the ceiling quizzically. "Nothing. Man, this isn't a possession, whatever it is."

"Maybe it wasn't a demon," Raffe suggests. "There are many things in the Pit, many things that might be repelled by sunlight. It's impossible to know."

"It was demonic," Bryon intervenes, "but it wasn't possession. I think I may have this figured out, but I can't be sure. Penryn, tell me, what did the voice sound like? Did it sound like someone was grinding an ice block on a cheese grater?"

Blinking at such a simple yet accurate description, I nod.

Hugo's eyes light up. "That sounds a lot like White W–"

Bryon pauses his speech with a single hand, palm lifted in a silencing gesture. "Lucius," he corrects, tone unnaturally even, eyes brooding and lips pulled back with an overall dislike of his situation. "Lucius, Hugo, it sounds like Lucius."

My heart skips a beat. "What? How?"

"That, I don't know." Bryon tilts his head to one side. "To me, it seems plausible that the demon someone received word that you were to track him down. Being the daughter of one of his past clients, he may have a particular interest in you. Or he could be trying to frighten you from your path, shaking you off his tail. Whatever it is, he was not trying to _harm_ you, no matter what the side effects had been, and for that, I am grateful. What happened next?"

"But what about –"

Again, Bryon holds up a hand and stops my sentence. "We'll discuss after we hear the main story. It keeps things simple. I'm just putting a theory out there. For all I know, Hugo or Raphael is scoffing at me for being an idiot."

"Not really," Hugo hums, but he smiles encouragingly at me.

Feeling flustered, I mutter, "Well, there's not much more to the falling bit." I swallow, narrowing my eyes, trying to capture the precious dreams, but it's like trying to catch slippery fish with nothing but my bare hands. "I mean, you fell down into the Pit, and the pain…" I shudder. "It was awful, nothing I've ever known. That's probably when I started screaming. I guess I stayed down there a lot longer than I thought if I was yelling for hours."

"Dreams tend to have a short sequence of events stretched over a longer duration," Hugo informs me. "Doesn't mean much in your situation, but it means something, and that's what counts."

"Uh, right. Well, then… I suppose you two know what happened next, what fished Bryon and I out of the Pit." I glance from Raffe to Bryon uncertainly, still slightly afraid that the pair's tempers will combust with the help of sparks from the past.

"I do." Raffe's voice is grim. "I don't understand what happened next, but I remember it."

"Black Wolf." Bryon's voice is quiet.

"Was it Black Wolf?" I gasp. "He didn't look very much like a wolf!"

"Flying wolves don't really look like wolves," Hugo laughs. "Probably because it's against nature's laws and shit like that for a land animal to fly. They hunch over and bring their paws to their chests. Look a bit like demented bunny rabbits with wings to me. But Black Wolf in particular looks funny, doesn't he, with all that muscle an brawn bunched up like a lil bunny?"

"Yes, it was Black Wolf," Bryon answers with an amused smile and a roll of his eyes. "He dove from above even the angelic – ah, the angels, and caught me before the Pit could trap me inside. Felt terrible in there, it did, like something was fundamentally wrong with everything. But he dropped me off on the ground beside it and took off into the sky. Wasn't long before he confided in me a BS way to get rid of only male angels."

"That's right, you two were buds? Actually," I hastily correct, seeing Hugo slice a finger over his throat, shaking a violent no from behind Bryon, "just allies, silly me. Well, when the wolf thing lifted you up, I heard another voice. I dunno if it was his voice or whatnot –"

"Might've been, if it corresponded with the rising sun in the real world," Hugo speculates.

"– but he said something about how I wouldn't fail. And the headache started hurting less, going away. The other cold voice shrieked about how the future couldn't be changed or something or another, but he was fading pretty goddamned quickly. And then he was gone altogether, and I woke up here."

"That really is weird," Raffe murmurs thoughtfully. "Of course, I don't really –"

Before he can finish his sentence, a sharp knock echoes through the room, the fist emitting a sound so strong it rattles the door on its hinges. Frowning, Hugo peeks out the blinds, and his eyebrows shoot up.

"There's a rowdy crowd in the square," he reports, looking to Bryon for guidance. "All Nephilim, best I can tell, and all pretty grumpy looking. Ogden is marching back in forth, halfway between beastie and not beastie, like he's keeping them under control. The Watchers are in the air, they look like they're flying off, and there's no sign of the Wives. Can't see who's at the door."

"What?" Bryon stands abruptly, all thoughts of discussing my dream shoved aside. "Raphael, stay inside, out of view. If it's a riot, do not show your face. Penryn, Hugo, you may want to listen in."

Mind swimming with questions – could it really be a riot, amongst these friendly people? – I nod at Bryon, unfolding from Raffe's embrace to lean forward. A single one of Raffe's arms wrap around my shoulders, but otherwise, I am liberated.

With each step towards the door, he refines his expression and stance more, squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw into a straight line, hardening his eyes and balling his fists. As he swings it open in response to the angry knocking, he looks more like a dragon than I'd ever seen him.

A man with stag antlers protruding from his blonde hair greets him, the man's blue slit-eyes, leonine tail angrily coiling around his feet, and hunched build portraying a half-morphed Nephilim.

"Have you heard?" he rumbles with Daine's voice, but then seems to hurry to correct himself. "Of course not, sir. Of course you haven't."

My mouth drops at the form with the claws curling at the ends of his fingertips and the neck padded with the beginnings of a furry pelt. Could it possibly be Daine? Evidently so.

"Daine?" Bryon's voice is sharp. "What the Devil are you talking about? Weren't you supposed to be fetching supplies for my niece? What's with this crowd, and where are the Watchers going?"

"The Watchers are following their wives to war," Daine dismisses, waving one hairy hand. "I was going to get something for Penryn, a tonic to ease her headache and a few books to research her ailments, but my wife distracted me with the latest report. It's on repeat on one of the radio stations. It's what's got all my people riled up."

Bryon studies the crowds intently, and I, too listen to the furious cries echoing in through the doorway's restraints. "Ogden's holding them back, keeping them quiet," he notes, observing something I cannot.

"He came with me, if you remember, to help carry supplies. He thought it'd be best if they didn't disturb Penryn, or any other of my patients."

"God bless him," Bryon murmurs graciously. "But what's going on, Daine? Enough evasion."

Though he'd been instructed not to evade the truth, Daine doesn't look all too pleased about being the one forced to deliver the news. "It's the Nephilim in Africa that has everyone on edge, sir, the nomads. You see, an angel group was authorized – we're not sure by who yet, sir – to attack a small traveling pack of women and children heading towards water for bathing. They were escorted by two warriors and two warriors only – Ashanti and Femi."

Bryon sucks in a breath, his eyes wide. "Not Femi."

Daine locks his pale blue eyes on the ground, blinking frequently. "The angelic bastards wiped out every single one of the traveling party, sir, before moving on to terrorize the larger pack of travelers. They slaughtered the women, children, infants, and… and Femi."

"Femi?" I whisper, aiming my question to no one in particular. It is Hugo who answers in a hushed tone, his face wrought with poorly concealed grief.

"Femi was who a lot of people nicknamed Bryon Jr.," Hugo explains, something astoundingly similar to tears turning his eyes shiny. "He was actually the successor of Bryon's throne, should something have happened to your uncle. Good man, Femi. Didn't deserve to die."

"This is unacceptable," Bryon snarls. "I refuse to accept this."

"And such… such is life." The heavy Mexican accent makes it extremely difficult to distinguish the words of the man staggering forward. Hiccupping, the man saunters forth, this one pint-sized and with grey mottled wings hanging crookedly by his sides. Swinging a bottle to and fro, he smiles drunkenly at Bryon. "The thing about people is that they don't get that candles can light up the darkness, but candles have wicks. _Wicks_. Or candles get blown out. 'S what happened to Femi. His candle got blew out before his wick was done near finished."

"Miguel." Bryon sighs, frustration causing him to clench and unclench his fists. "Go bother Emilio, why don't you?"

Miguel peers at Bryon with unfocused vision. "Wonder what people'll do when your light goes out, huh? Darkness 'gain, won't it be? Wonder if you'll reach the end of your candlestick, or if something'll…" He blows on Bryon's agitated face with spittle-flecked breath before swaggering off once more.

"Damn him," Daine rumbles, eyes tailing the drunkardbefore focusing once more on Bryon. "People are going to want an official statement, King. If not, they'll take matters into their own hands."

"And I know where that will go." Bryon kneads at his forehead. "Excuse Hugo and I for a minute, Penryn. We need to get something done. Hugo?"

Flicking his fingers in a mocking salute towards me, Hugo slinks out the door after Bryon, and slams it behind him, locking Raffe, Penryn, and I together.

"Ryn-ryn?" Paige's voice is worried – she, too, can't really follow through with events. Her hand at my shoulder tightens around my T-shirt, clenching the fabric to release her tension.

"It's okay, baby," I croon, breaking from Raffe's embrace altogether in order to wrap by arms around her. "It'll all be okay." Penryn seems grateful for the hug, and quickly returns it, looking up at me with big, inquisitive eyes.

"I don't know," I whisper, hugging her to my chest. The pain in my forehead has subsided, but the shadow of its agony still frightens me. "I don't know what's going on."

And there we sit in silence. Raffe seems elsewhere, caught in his own universe, watching the golden sunlight filtering through the blinds slowly dull into a yellow, and then into its usual white, perhaps listening the conversations outside. I, too, am caught in an imaginary realm, replaying scenes of the past in my mind of the days before all this madness. Paige is quiet in my lap, each roar of the boisterous crowd echoing from outside seeming to frighten her more than the last.

At long last, the door opens again, emitting a weary and shell-shocked looking Hugo. Raffe stands at his entrance, seeming eager for news.

"Goddamn," Hugo grunts as he enters, shaking his head from side to side. "I can't believe that just happened."

"What?" Raffe presses, stepping closer, blue eyes urgent for the updated version of things. "What happened?"

Collapsing in the only wooden armchair in the room, Hugo looks exhausted. "Well, for starters, Bryon officially declared war on the aeries of Africa and 'all those that decide to stand beside them', regardless of any prior plans. Because who needs silly things like strategy? That's one thing."

Raffe inhales sharply, and I can't help but wonder if he has archangel buddies in Africa. But before he can question further, the door swings open again to admit my uncle.

But it's not like the uncle I'm used to, with twinkling eyes and an ever-welcoming smile. His face is hard, angry, _cruel_, almost. He doesn't stride about with his friendly gait as he beelines to the center of the room – even his step seems more hostile, alert, ready to react to any stimuli, any at all. The bronze eyes once that'd scintillated like two disks now are dull, iced over and vacantly determined, as if all the laughter had left them.

As he studies the room, his gaze more of a glare, I find myself wondering what'd happened to the Bryon with the silly flower beanie.

"Judging by the way you're glaring at me, Raphael, I'd say that Hugo's already broken the news," Bryon estimates. It's not like his voice has changed in some tremendous way. In fact, it's honestly changed very little. But the fact that it's callus and cold at all is shocking enough for I grip Paige a little tighter to my chest.

Raffe crosses his arms over his chest and sneers silently at him.

"Well, good for you." Bryon dismisses Raffe's anger without a second glance. "Hugo, do you believe that it'd be safe for Penryn to approach Lucius even after this bizarre a dream?"

Hugo, who'd buried his head in a hand, drags his fingers down enough so that he can just see over. "Yeah, should be. Like you said, he hurt her unintentionally. Didn't really mean to harm her."

Bryon nods, eyes calculating this without emotion. "When do you think that you'll be ready to set off for Jane's den?"

Yawning, Hugo answers, "Tomorrow morning, if Scruffy doesn't have anything to do. You want me to leave that soon?"

"Daine's leading the Sercem Domu forces in Emilio's absence," Bryon informs, his cynical eyes already landing on me. "Daine will be unable to continue his research of Paige, and, therefore, staying here any longer will be pointless. The sooner you get to Lucius, the sooner Penryn and Paige can get to safety."

"Makes sense." Hugo stretches, popping a bunch of his joints. "Can you gather what research Daine's already taken and deliver it to me, see if I can have a crack at it?"

"It's already on its way." A ghost of smile softens Bryon's face for half a second before it focuses again, this time on me. "Penryn, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to get moving eventually. Emilio is pretty pissed at being left behind, he doesn't know he's got a special mission yet. Nonetheless, he's ordered you meet him in the courtyard at eleven o'clock sharp, trauma or no trauma. That gives you two hours to recover. Need be, I can make him skip it altogether. Do you think…?"

"I'll be fine by then," I assure. "The headache's gone already. Let me get dressed and I'll be set. Good to go."

Bryon's warrior façade crumbles. With a resonating sigh, he walks towards me, smiling and shaking his head, expression soft as Silly Putty. "Strong little Penryn." He claps one massive hand to the top of my head and kisses my forehead, bringing on quite a bout of ambivalence. After repeating the process with Paige, he draws back, rising back to his full height.

Before I know it, his expression is stony again and he's rounding on Raffe.

"You will stay with Penryn until Miss De La Flor arrives – that's Emilio's mother. She will watch over Paige and Penryn, make sure that nothing else weird happens. I trust her and her judgment completely. You will go to Ogden's forge quickly, quietly, not causing a ruckus of any kind that may rub anyone the wrong way, and help him tinker you a sword."

"I don't need one of your steel swords." Raffe's refusal seems to silence the room even more. "The metal is heavy and the edges are dull."

Bryon's eyes narrow belligerently. "You'll find that Ogden is no amateur with his metalworking, Raphael. Don't insult him again, or else you'll be insulting me too. You need a sword for when we go to the Seraphim, or a weapon of some sort, in case things to awry."

"You can take _my_ sword, since she'll let your filthy mitts hold her." My throat dries as Raffe continues to provoke Bryon's anger. "If things go awry, I'll either be able to use her or these." He lifts his wings slightly, allowing the scythes to slip slightly from their sheathes.

Bryon takes one very controlled inhalation, his eyes flashing with anger. Stepping closer to Raffe, he seems to grow more and more pissed with each breath the angel takes.

"Let me summarize something for you," Bryon growls through gritted teeth, "since you seem to be unable of figuring it out for yourself. After a tiring day of socialization and greetings and keeping Nephilim from killing you, Raphael, on my way to bed after a late night, I find myself stopped by both my disappointed parents. And then, after, oh, three to four hours of arguing over your life for you against two very, very convincing points of view, I drag my feet to my room, prepared to hit the bed and hopeful to get a good few hours of sleep – unlike the night before, mind you, when I was arguing from sunset to sunrise with _Daine_ over the sense of keeping you here – when Paige staggers up, telling me that my niece was writhing in bed. Then, after several excruciating ages of waiting for something to happen, she wakes up and tells me her chilling tale, bringing memories of all the reasons I hate you to life once more. But before I have the time to brood over her dream's mysteries, all of Sercem Domu is waiting in the sunshine to bring me the news of my best friend's death and their bloodthirsty passions to bring those who'd slain their fellows to their knees. Now I've declared war on an overwhelming force with nearly no affirmed backup, no true strategy, not the slightest bit of organization, or any idea of what I've gotten myself into. If you want to start a fight, continue on with giving me sass. Go ahead, screw yourself over. I dare you."

Bryon glares at Raffe. The nickname "Dragon King" rings about in my mind as Raffe falters, edging back from Bryon's powerful glare.

"Good," Bryon thunders. "We leave at sunset for the Seraphim, Raphael, so you'd better have your blade ready by then, and anything else you plan on taking with us."

He storms from the room, cloak fluttering behind him. The sunlight bathes him gloriously as Bryon swings the door open. Pivoting back, he meets my gaze. It could be light gleaming off his bronze eyes or maybe the figments of my imagination, but there seems to be a saddened note to it, a bittersweet farewell.

My mind sears with pain, and a vaguely familiar voice rattles in my thoughts, a voice from my dream, its warm vibrating tones sounding mournful, a voice spiced with trembles of melancholy.

_War is such a terrible thing, is it not, Penryn Young?_

* * *

**The moment we've all been waiting for: Raffe drives Bryon to the end of his wits. **

**After a few chapters of the calm before the storm, the toil has begun. I wanted to have a bit of Bryon sweetness before he became so utterly focused on the task at hand. **

**POLL: Penryn's dream held a few mysteries, but I'm here to name just a couple: What was Lucius's goal in such a thing? Was it actually Lucius? And who do you believe it was that warded him off? Is it a coincidence Penryn dreamt of Black Wolf on the night she did, with a war waiting in the coming day?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	28. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**Chapter Twenty Seven**

Muscle ripples beneath its inky pelt with each step the beast takes. Fur as black as night is marred with blood orange ovals pockmarking its shoulders and hindquarters, like a leopard's spots. Two snowy white crescents are pressed against its muscular ribcage, the feathers a startling contrast to the darkness of the rest of its body. Though I can't tell which one species it resembles most, the Nephilim is feline in build, with great black paws hitting the tiles silently and rounded ears twitching and swiveling every which way. The signature long tail swishes to and fro in an agitated manner, brushing over the stone with the tuft of fur at the very tip.

Though he is still recognizable as a Nephilim, there is one particular trait that seems abnormal: his eyes. As most of the airborne Nephilim take off from the center of the courtyard, I'd been able to study the squad leaders, which had been the only ones with beasty appearances, as they pummeled the irritable troops into rows and took off for Africa. Most of the Nephilim have slit-eyes like Bryon, with a reptilian or leonine similarity. However, this one's chocolate brown eyes seem startlingly human, as if someone has stuck two eyeballs into a demon's eye sockets.

As those creepy eyes lock onto my gaze, I understand whose brown pupils they belong to. Unfolding my arms from where they'd been leaning against the arch's railing, I check that Pooky Bear's still in her sheathe. As my hand clamps around her hilt, she sends a jolt of anger through my arm, reminding me why I'd taken to just leaving Raffe's sword be.

"Oh, look," Miss De La Flor coos from beside me, her Spanish accent garbling each word, "Emilio has arrived." She smiles at the feline Nephilim. "Isn't he a handsome boy? No awkward bumps or ridges, just muscle and sinew. Most of these creatures, bah! Thorns and scales and puppy dog tails, ugly monsters!"

I cast her a sideways glance. "You're a cool mom, Miss De La Flor. Emilio's lucky to have you."

The brown-eyed Nephilim, evidently near enough to me to hear the conversation, snorts rather rudely with an angry roll of his eyes. Emilio glares at his mother as he approaches, lifting his lips to growl at her, a thunderous feline rumble. Hurt flickers in Miss De La Flor's eyes, and, although the pain quickly hardens into steel, I don't help but feel sorry for the feisty woman. Regardless of his mother's pain, Emilio marches up directly to us, three times the size of any big cat I know. As soon as his sleek black paws carry him into an arm's length, Miss De La Flor reveals that her son's reflexes weren't inherited from his father.

_Crack!_

Emilio howls and retreats a few steps, burying his forehead beneath his paws.

Miss De La Flor, holding a large wooden ladle over her shoulder hostilely, shouts something in rapid-fire Spanish at Emilio. Her eyes blaze, and her lips are bared in a snarl. Clapping a hand over my mouth to smother my laughter, I can't help but wonder if this is the reason an angel fell in love with her.

Emilio snarls something back, seeming begrudgingly frightened by her wooden spoon. Laying his ears back, he grumbles a reluctant submission to his mother.

I want to compliment Miss De La Flor on her ability to put Emilio in his place, but, if Emilio is in a bad enough mood to go around hurting the feelings of the mother he'd so obviously adored the last time we'd met, I don't want to get on his nerves, especially if he's going to have blades in his hands.

"So." Clearing my throat, I draw both fiery gazes, and I'm unsure of how much I appreciate that. "Emilio, have we got a place or somewhere that we'll be doing this, or what…?"

He stares at me, then seems abruptly annoyed. Shaking his sleek pelt like a dog spraying water, he pads off, sighing heavily. I frown after him as he takes the steps towards the big wooden doors of the main castle, feeling as though I'd done something horribly wrong and offended him somehow.

"What's his problem?" I question, turning to his mother with a raised eyebrow.

Shrugging sadly, she shakes her head slowly, eyes forlorn. "My big boy has been through much. Too much. Now, even everyday things, such as him not being able to speak while catlike annoy him. He used to be such a good little boy, doing whatever his mama asked him, staring at me with those beautiful brown eyes."

"What happened? Other than the apocalypse, I mean."

Miss De La Flor saddens further, wrapping her stout arms around herself in a hug. "We didn't used to live here in Sercem Domu, you realize, yes? We came here, seeking Daine and his legendary talents in medicine. The only one that my boy loved more than me was his little sister, Maribel. She was a beautiful girl, with bright blue eyes the color of the sky. I think your sister reminds him a lot of little Maribel."

My heart stutters at her past tenses. "What happened to her?" I whisper, sympathetic.

Miss De La Flor wraps her arms tighter around herself. "The very same thing that happened to your little sister, Penryn. Except she was an untested prototype with little chance of survival, stitches sewing her organs together in improper order. My little boy fought through an entire aerie to get her back, and then harnessed a wild wolf on what many thought to be a fool's journey. Pepper, I think he called the wolf. I don't know where it is now."

"Bryon cared for him," I whisper. "He was being mistreated, and… he's wild again, I think."

Nodding her approval, Miss De La Flor smiles weakly. "He is a frightening wolf, is he not? My boy tamed him somehow – there is something called mutual pain, and I think they both felt it, the boy and the wolf. He packed up little Maribel onto the wolf's back so she wouldn't be bothered by his laborious flapping, that her breathing would be kept steady, and set off over the Atlantic. When he arrived here, he unpacked her, handed her to Daine, told him to fix his sister, and passed out on the spot with exhaustion. After flying all the way across America and before that the ocean, my boy was too exhausted to realize he was handing the doctor a dead body."

My heart clenches, and my throat tightens. Empathy isn't difficult to feel – if it had been Paige, I think I might've acted similarly. "Oh, God."

"Yes." Miss De La Flor glances my direction, her neat eyebrows pinched together. "The doctor's big wolf, the Rumbbaa one, he picked me up from my home country to bring me here to my son, just before things became too bad to cross the seas. I doubt we'll ever return, I doubt he'll ever see his Daughter of Man sweetheart again. But life is a heartless bitch and she does not care; she only carries on."

Before I can comment further, sharing my condolences with Miss De La Flor, Emilio throws open the wooden doors once more, his proud warrior's prowl demanding my attention.

Clad in the same black leather armor shirt as I'd seen him wearing earlier, Emilio stalks over, a red lump on his forehead shining angrily in the morning light. The hilts of his two gleaming swords protrude from behind him, partnered by the pale crests of his wings over his shoulders. At his hip is another sword, bound only with a leather cord around the hilt, dangling freely against his lean thigh. Its jaunty swinging at his side could be distorting my view, but I could swear the metal seems bumpy and almost bent.

He walks right past me with only a silencing glance my direction. As he approaches his mother, he hangs his head and murmurs softly something in Spanish, so soft I can hardly tell he's speaking at all.

His mother's rounded cheeks flush happily once more, her eyes shining with glee. She tucks her ladle beneath one arm and grips Emilio tightly around his waist, burying her head into his leather armor. Smiling tenderly, Emilio smoothes his mother's greying hair from her face and returns her embrace with one firm arm winded around her shoulders. He kisses her forehead, murmuring something more into her hair, before unraveling from her hug. Though she doesn't seem very pleased about it, Miss De La Flor breaks from the embrace as well, kissing her son on either cheek as he retreats.

"See, Penryn?" Miss De La Flor sighs loudly, attracting the attention of several women ambling about in the courtyard. "He is a good boy, a good boy that loves his mother. My boy, my big, strong boy!"

"Penryn." There is none of the gentleness I'd seen on Emilio's face as he'd regarded his mother now, just an impassive dullness, a soldier's façade. "As much as I enjoy wasting time, we have a place to be, and a limited amount of time to get a lot of stuff done. Do you have any armor?"

"No." I spread my hands wide, shaking my head. "No, I don't. Is that going to be a problem?"

Emilio's lips purse. He sighs wearily. "So be it. You'll just be a little bruised after our lesson, which is unfortunate, considering you're taking off tomorrow to track down Lucius, the Big, Bad Wolf among Big, Bad Beasties. However, there is a saying in English…" He grapples for the words, eyebrows scrunching together. "No agony, no gain?"

"No pain, no gain," his mother supplies, nodding her head. "You were raised right. I like you, Emilio."

His slender lips quirk. "I'm glad for it. Now, Penryn, we shouldn't stand around any longer, unless you think you're ready enough now." The look on Emilio's face discourages any smart remarks I might've been forming. "Is there anything else you think you need? Use the restroom now, we may or may not stop for lunch, and I doubt I'll have much tolerance for bathroom breaks."

After several other assurances and checks, including a sendoff from Hugo, Emilio leads me through the now lean city of Sercem Domu. We pass the drunkard from earlier this morning, Miguel, passed out in a rosebush in the courtyard, and Emilio snorts imprudently.

"Scum," he scoffs, his expression so disgusted I wouldn't be surprised if the Hispanic spat on Miguel's unconscious face. "A waste of oxygen."

I study the drool leaking from the corner of Miguel's mouth halfheartedly. "He's a bit of an oddball, isn't he? I thought you Nephilim were good and holy and all that stuff."

"You will find that happy mood to be less so now," Emilio harrumphs, "and this _Mexican_" – he spits out the word, as if the syllables will burn his tongue if he bears it too long – "is the scum of us all. He does nothing but dirty our reputation as peacekeepers, dirty our streets with his alcohol and licentious presence, and dirty my Spanish tongue with his primitive accent and pronunciation."

"That's a bit racist, don't you think?"

Emilio's eyes burn. "How can I explain this to you? It is the fact that he is _Mexican_ and behaves in such a manner irks me most of all, for I know that not all can be foul. However, if one chooses to act stereotypical and fit the expectations of many, he dirties the appearances of his fellows with his own filth. Those who claim they cannot change do not try hard enough – weaklings! It is a behavior most common in Mexicans. They are not all foul, they just have more scum than the rest of us. The mother country was right to let the barbarians have their petty rights – imagine the embarrassment!"

"You've got a very high opinion of Spain," I note.

Emilio rubs at the back of his neck, looking down at the ground with a troubled frown. "I suppose I do. I suppose I fit the stereotype for the passionate Spaniard. But I care not – I have pride in my country. That is a whole other matter."

"Mmmm hmmm." I bite my lip as we continue through the courtyard, stomaching any replies to his contradicting words.

As we passage through the streets once filled with laughing, talking people, I understand just how different things are. It is almost like two sides of the same coin, with conciliatory attitudes on one end and hostile on the next. Though I'd been met with acceptance and affection, I don't feel a lick of it now – their reasons for cautions have been fortified, the apocalypse so long kept at bay finally arrived, a war that'd been on the distant horizon breaking out around them. In their eyes, I had been fraternizing with the enemy, warming up to Raffe as I do – and though my connections with their idol prevent them from any interrogations or obvious displays of distrust, the signs are there. I have overstayed my welcome here, and they all seem to know it as well as I do.

It could be this aura of hostility that drives Emilio to take our practice session so far out of the town. However, it could be something immensely different that leads the Nephilim far beyond the peaceful fields of growing plants and tilled dirt, back into the thicket from which I came. He doesn't seem content with a location until he reaches a large clearing with a rotting stump in the middle of it. Evidently satisfied with the choice, he wheels about to face me, tugging the lumpy sword from his belt.

"We're here." He nods towards the stump. "Put Wrath's sword on that tree. You won't be needing it."

"What?" I stare at him blankly, glancing swiftly down at the sword he holds in his hand, battered and bent. "Why? She's a great sword; I mean, I've not handled too many, but she's the best I've used."

"Exactly." Flicking his wrist and with it the dull silver blade, Emilio gestures again towards the stump. "Put her down, will you?"

Stubbornly, I grip Pooky Bear's hilt, meeting Emilio's gaze. I don't utterly trust him, at least not enough to leave Raffe's sword alone in the middle of the woods. It'd be way too easy to slink in and swipe it from the stump's face.

Seeing my resilience, Emilio rolls his eyes. "There may come a time, Penryn," he lectures sternly, "that you're not going to have a great sword to guide your every move. In fact, there may come a time when you're fighting with a broken sword, or even an old broom handle. If you grow used to perfectly balanced swords, then you shall only ever be used to perfectly balanced swords. Thea insisted I use a different stick each day when she trained me as a boy, and slowly graduated me into sloppy swords and then mediocre swords and then" – with his opposite hand, he grips the hilt of one of his dual swords, and with minimal effort, tugs it from its scabbard, the hiss of metal rasping through the air as he bares the polished and engraved blade to the sky – "to this sword, Espada, and its brother, Otra Espada."

I stare at him, biting my lip to keep a straight face. "You named your swords Sword and Other Sword."

"And if I did?" He meets my gaze with a dance of humor amongst the brown of his eyes, and I can't help but wonder if we'd have gotten along in World Before. "You took Spanish, I assume?"

I wince, praying he won't quiz me. "One year of it, a long time ago. So you did name them Sword and Other Sword? I thought maybe I'd translated something wrong…"

"It's a very sloppy translation, and it's not completely correct," Emilio chuckles, "but it's close enough that's it's doable, I suppose. But enough of this. Wrath's sword, over there." He jerks Espada towards the stump. "She sings for my blood, and it's very likely you'll lose control of her."

"Alright." Reluctantly, I slouch over and set Pooky Bear on the wood, attempting to ignore the angry emotions pumping through her. "So, do you want me to find a stick or something, to duel with Sword and Other Sword?"

My sulkiness isn't helped as Emilio smirks darkly. "This awful insult to metalwork will do nicely." He lifts the lumpy sword in explanation, flipping it in his hands until he's holding the dull blade, hilt extended towards me. "I had Ogden make it, with the request that it'd be worse than his first ever sword. I think he did well, don't you?"

"Oh, God, that monstrosity is for me?" Grimacing, I take it, its heavy and unbalanced weight irritating in my hands. "He nailed it. I'd actually prefer a stick. The hilt on this is bent, did you know?"

"Yes." Tossing Espada in the air, he switches hands several times as if it's some sort warming ritual. "You have some training with the sword other than what Wrath's sword orders you to do, hopefully?"

Though I empathize with Emilio and Bryon desires that I spill my soul to his Nephilim, I decide against telling him about the things Pooky Bear had taught me, in fear that he may attempt to probe at her other strengths. Raffe has sacrificed his pride to get his wings back – he doesn't need to lose all his secrets as well.

"My mom signed me up for fencing when I was a kid." I settle into a ready position, unbalanced sword gripped with both hands. "It went out of business after a few months, but I know the basics."

"Goody." Emilio braces his slender saber, stance lissome and ready to move. "I assume you have enough knowledge to know how to attack me?"

"Yeah." I swing my sword experimentally at the air in front of me, only becoming more discontent with its craftsmanship.

"Excellent. Hit me with your best shot."

And we clash together, my strokes tentative at first as I unearth knowledge long buried, bringing back memories of my days fencing and the lessons I'd taken with Pooky Bear both. Emilio needs none of these warming strikes – his blade meets mine with almost casual flicks of his wrist, his style much more graceful, more beautiful than anything I'd gone against. Instead of brunt, tenacious stabs from a brawny angel, he moves quickly and agilely, feigning strikes just as often as he makes them.

"Come on," Emilio growls through gritted teeth as he pierces through my defenses and slams the flat of his sword against my shoulder, sending shafts of pain through my arm. "You are clumsy, slow, sluggish. The sword is awkward in your hand. It is not a battle as you seem to deem it – it is a dance, a deadly dance with one survivor."

Continuing after skipping back to allow me to regain my balance, Emilio lectures, "You are not fighting an oaf. I am a duelist and the brazen attacks you attempt to launch will not work." His eyes burn. "Show me that you can be resourceful, monkey."

Prompted by that, I begin to fight slightly differently – instead of attacking him the way Pooky Bear had taught me to, with bold force that, without her added fury, I just don't possess, I try to use a more lithe way of fighting – although Emilio still sends me stumbling back with his slices and blocks, an endless ring around the clearing, things seem to become slightly easier, and the shift in styles forces Emilio to sacrifice a margin of time to adjust his tactics.

We brawl for a while longer, and I feel myself loosening up to the sword, recalling things I'd learned long ago and things more recently from Pooky Bear. And, with each thing I recall, I learn a little, too – the minutes tick by, and I find myself learning as I get tossed around the clearing, learning enough that I can hold my own, even land a few successful strikes of my own.

Perhaps he's purposefully letting me hit him, but it still feels good to hear a grunt of pain as the bent sword collides with his bare shoulder of the oof as it hits his armor, knocking the breath from his lungs.

"Less clumsy," he persists once more as he sends my blade flying, thudding in the dirt. "You have no rhythm. Set a rhythm and keep with it, set it to the beat of your heart. Leave nothing up to chance – evaluate everything I do, and respond in kind."

"You really have no problem beating me up, do you?" I growl as I snatch the sword from the ground, glaring murderously at Emilio.

"Your opponents won't." He blinks slowly, as if I'm an annoying schoolgirl asking too many questions. "My own personal laws of conduct permit me from using many of the lewd attacks you may encounter, but I suppose now is as good as a time as ever to warn you that you will encounter them."

"Thanks for the heads up." Shifting back into a fighting stance, I attempt to plead with my eyes. "Can't you just give me one small hint about what I should do? What I should fix?"

"You'll learn through experience better than I can teach you. I've already had to take the difficulty up a notch." There is something akin to praise in his tone, but it quickly vanishes. "But I will tell you this: you're not treating this with the right respect. You are a hand-to-hand combatant, yes? Hand-to-hand and sword-to-sword are two utterly separate concepts. One is a savage brawl, another is a dance. You are a dancer on display, your allies are your audience, and the battlefield is your stage. In a dance between partners, if you fumble or falter in your steps, your partner will groan and the audience will laugh. The exact opposite applies here. Now, again."

Before he can fully prepare for anything, I smack the bent sword's broad against his jaw, sending Emilio stumbling backwards. The resounding crack echoes in my ears, but just as he'd said, I use my own roaring heartbeat as a cadence for my "dance" and leap forward, rapping the metal on Emilio's hand.

His grip seems to loosen, but Emilio's jaw clenches, and he whirls to life. All dancing metaphors make sense now as I struggle to deflect his blows, as he maintains both the elegance and the class of a Broadway star while he batters me brutally.

His sword clangs against mine, and I can feel it loosen in my hand. He only needs to strike once more, and then victory will once again be his, and I'll be facing a slightly more pissed Emilio.

_Use your surroundings._ I'm not sure if it's my conscious talking to me, a cheesy movie quote, or an old lesson come back to life, but I'm glad for the sudden thought. Immediately, I duck behind a pine tree, and Emilio's blade lodges into the sappy trunk.

I drop into a crouch, a sudden bout of courage broadening my heart. The sun burns at my back with its heat, shining in Emilio's eyes as he pulls free Espada.

Instead of instantly rejoining our dance, Emilio studies his situation, scampering back into the center of the clearing. I could be mistaken, but I swear the corners of his mouth are tipped upwards in a frail smile of approval, as if my rebellion has proved to be not annoying but rather uplifting.

_The battle is not solely blade against blade. Do not let him usurp you with promises of elegance and beauty. You are not a graceful duelist. You are a tough winner. Use that._

I hesitate for a moment, contemplating the words in my mind – I'm almost certain now that this isn't my subconscious. Usurp is not something I commonly use when thinking to myself. Maybe it's an old Kung Fu movie whispering in the hidden corners of my brain – or maybe it's something else. However, I can't find a reason not to trust it; there is not a hint of benevolence in the thoughts drifting through my mind, placed there by this other self, but there isn't belligerence, either. There is sense, adamant and inarguable, and I cannot find a reason not to trust that.

When we clash together once more, I use a few more of my tricks, including a quick stamp at his feet and an elbow to his opposite arm. Though he knocks my sword from my hand once more and his annoyance returns, the words still rattle about in my mind.

Again and again, we cross blades, and I become dirtier and dirtier – hitting the branches above us so pine needles will rain in his eyes, kicking his legs out from under him, not hitting his blade at all but his wrist; the list of things I attempt grows only longer, each time with greater success than the last.

It's evident that Emilio is used to dirty fighters as well, but his gentlemanly code binds him in a way that my lawlessness does not – more than once, I take advantage of his masculinity, coming up closer than comfortable to him where my shorter, bent sword is preferable, only to ram my knee between his legs and skitter back. He learns to defend against that after only one shot, so it quickly becomes worthless.

With all honesty, Emilio is still holding back, not attacking with his full might. If I had Pooky Bear, I truly believe I might be his match. But as it stands, he severely dominates me – something that chills my bones. I cannot grasp his style well enough to learn to deflect it, I cannot adapt to his blows like he adapts to mine. His elegance and sweeping slices do not falter, do not halt, do not differ in the slightest until once, mid-swing, I catch him on the hilt of the blade and send it flying from his hands for the first time.

Emilio smiles almost cruelly, his brown eyes glinting as he retrieves his sword. Sweat crusts the edges of his leather armor and his hands are striped with various nicks I'd carved into his flesh. He lifts Espada, twirls it once in the air so that the golden sunlight catches its glare, then smiles wickedly.

"Good." He marches back, settling into a ready position. "Again."

"Good?" My spine straightens indignantly. "That's all I get?"

"It's taken you two hours to get that down. You're only getting a 'good'."

Muttering beneath my breath, I charge towards him, prepared to greet the long saber in an elegant swipe. Instead, it darts forward in a quick strike, like a cobra's bite, and jabs me bluntly in the gut. As I double over, it slaps me in the ribs, sending me reeling to the right. I cast one hand out to steady myself, unintentionally tipping my balance unnaturally forwards. Emilio slams the hilt into the small of my back.

My already thrown out hands catch me moments before I hit the dirt, but it doesn't stop my knees and palms from getting ripped up by the pine needles and sharp pebbles.

I rise, the seething hints of anger vanquished by puzzlement. "Why –"

"I need to school you in many different styles." His lips pull back in the same wry grin as before, a maniacal gleam in his chocolate eyes. "If you can send the sword from my hand, you can defeat an enemy with an exact or similar style with the assistance of Wrath's blade. For today, that is my goal. But it's also a tactic that your uncle invented."

I furrow my brow. "How is changing tactics a tactic?"

Emilio grins. Although his hold on his sword is different and the way he arches his back holds little familiarity to it, the nimble dancing gait he uses as he circles me is the same. "Well, for a long period of time, your uncle thought that he was going to devote his entire life to killing Raphael and other archangels like him. In order to do that, he had to be a near perfect swordsman – which he was, and _is_, and he had to devise the best style to do so, which he did. An archangel is trained its entire… for lack of a better English word, I will say its entire entirety, to be a killing machine, a warrior without fault, never questioning the orders but panning them out to those ranked below him. And to do that, they must be kickass fighters."

Despite my lingering thoughts on Raffe, I can't help but snort at that – Emilio constructs a magnanimous aura around himself, and hearing a noble warrior cuss isn't something you hear every day in the fairytales.

"I'm being serious, Penryn. The archangels are trained to analyze an opponent's style and think of a way to effectively counter it with only one crossing of blades. They are machines with a sole desire. The only way the King discovered to throw off that powerful ability of theirs was to be utterly unpredictable, to fight for a few strikes with one tactic then abruptly switch, preferably midstrike. It confuses them, puts a dent in their reality, long enough to place several well-aimed blows to their abdomen. Raphael still hasn't picked it up yet, after Lord Almighty knows how many years of the two getting into fights." Emilio snorts rudely. "That idiot can't even connect the dots to figure out it was Bryon all along, I'll wager. Is it true that he didn't know there were any Nephilim, that he thought he'd exterminated us all? I wouldn't be surprised if it were."

My lip curls. Though I can take the snide glares and the mildly offending comments, I do not want to listen to Emilio trashing Raffe. Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, "Raphael is a Spanish name."

Emilio doesn't quit shooting me spiteful glares throughout the rest of the lesson and his strikes no longer spare me of any pain, but for some crazy reason, I think it's definitely worth it.

* * *

"Be careful with this!" Hugo lectures, pounding Bryon on the chest to gain his more focused attention. "Seriously! These wings are more volatile than… they're more dangerous than jumping a tank filled with lava and lava sharks and lava giant squid and evil lava Pigeon-Bats –"

"Excuse you," rumbles Pigeon-Bat from the corner, peering up from his freshly preened wings in annoyance.

"– on a kiddy scooter _with no wheels_," Hugo finishes, refusing to glance at Pigeon-Bat. "Seriously. Ever since wifey poo pulled out that one feather and decided to keep it for fun – ever thought about trading pictures, by the way, instead of feathers? – and now every new one Ogden makes won't fit. There's always wrong with them on some microscopic degree, and because the universe and I have a grudge, it's enough to fuck things up. Do you still have that big stack I gave you?"

"Yes. You fret over me more than my mother." Bryon's thunderous chuckle brings back memories of being curled around his neck, sprawled over his chest as Hugo would listen to his bedtime stories as a wee little kid, and the way his throat would vibrate against Hugo's temple as he spoke or bounce as he laughed.

"I do it on behalf of Wifey Poo." Hugo puffs out his chest.

"Oh, so it's Wifey Poo now?" Bryon laughs melodically again, still fiddling with the clasps on his right arm. "She'll be thrilled to hear that, I'm sure. Oi, Raphael, Penryn's back, and we're leaving in under fifteen minutes – as soon as you strap up those wings and I strap on these wings. This is your chance, and you can bet your life I won't let you have another one."

The archangel studies Bryon for a few seconds more – Hugo had heard rumors from Miguel about the two having a severe argument directly after the first Raffryn kiss since the last known one at the aerie they were tragically separated at.

Hugo isn't quite certain where he stands on their relationship quite yet – the memories of Pigeon-Bat razing cities and murdering in cold blood scar him like a brand, a mar he can never scrub away, but at the same time, he's never seen the archangel more docile than he is around Penryn, and evidently, Sariel was just as dangerous back in his days of terror.

Besides, Raffryn is a rather cute ship name – and Daisy, one of the most anti-Raffryn people on the internet, had come up with it inadvertently, and it'd stuck with a little help from himself.

Hugo tilts his head and smirks after the archangel's quickly retreating form. "There goes a very confused Pigeon-Bat."

* * *

Rubbing at my shoulder, I limp into the courtyard. Pooky Bear's scoffing at my behavior, both past and current, does little to lighten my spirits. Though on the walk through the town had dispelled most of his grudge, Emilio still seems a little distant – perhaps he's tired, too, after working with a pathetic little princess on her ickle swordwork. After all, neither of us had been able to eat due to my incompetence, and I'd heard his stomach growl many times as he'd escorted me home, reminding me that he doesn't often get breakfast at home, either.

"Emilio!" My uncle's voice carries from his position outside his hotel room door, and he waves a hand forward, beckoning the warrior forth. The first thing I notice is not the purple bags shadowing his bronze eyes, nor the rumpled appearance of his clothing and hair, but rather, the vaguely familiar gleam of metal wings strapped to his arms. I could be incorrect, but they seem to be the same pair from my nightmare.

As he drops his arm, I catch the gleam of a metal feather out of place, its color and shape slightly different than its companions. I grin at it. The same pair.

Abruptly, Raffe drops beside me. His great black wings fold by his sides, becoming two dark teardrops against his back. I drink in the sight of him doing it – this is hopefully the last time I see those dark demon wings, the last time he folds up the leathery skin instead of glorious feathers. And, with that realization, my heart pulls – it is a realization that not only brings memories of all our time together, but one that draws subdued fears of mine into the light. Once Raffe has his wings back and Pooky Bear is safe in his possession, there won't be any reason for him to hang around.

But I swallow down such emotions and painfully hobble to his side, smiling at him. My hand rests at the hilt of his sword in case he may ask for her.

First a rejoicing greeting then alarm glints in his blue eyes. He surges forward, one hand flying to my face but then quickly deserting it, the other skating along the skin of my arm as he extends it out to my side, like some angelic scientist inspecting my wingspan. Eyes ever darkening, he studies the purple and yellow bruises along my arm with a clenched jaw, rubbing his thumb over a nasty cut deep in my forearm.

"Did the Spaniard do this to you?" Raffe's voice is cold, dangerously so.

I shrug, knowing that Raffe's anger can only escalate. "We were training. It's no big deal."

"No big deal?" Raffe repeats icily. "Tomorrow, you're going to embark on some sort of a quest to save your sister from an evil demon, and this bastard beats you up."

"Seriously, it's no big deal." I blush and glance down at the ground. "I provoked him, so it's sort of my fault."

Raffe's lips quirk. "I should've known. Still doesn't give him any right, though. Look at this!" Fussily, he extends my other arm, running a single finger down a long scratch stretching from my bicep to the back of my hand. "You take forever to heal! This will be hurting you for ages!"

I allow him to silently rage over all my injuries, his lips set in a hard line and his eyes burn. Finally, after thoroughly examining my arms, chest, back, and glancing my calves over, Raffe speaks again. "What did you do to piss him off?"

"Well, he sort of was a jerk to that Mexican drunk guy, and boasted about Spain a lot." I shrug. "He really, really likes Spain. Then later, he started… well, trash-talking you. I just reminded him that Raphael is typically a Spanish name, and he got really angry at that for some reason."

Raffe is silent for a moment. And then he laughs, a booming chuckle that warms any awkwardness that'd started to spread throughout me. Shaking his head, he focuses back on me, eyes aglow.

"You are a funny little monkey, you know that?" he chuckles, cocking an eyebrow.

"I'm not a monkey," I remind him. "Not specifically, anyway. Actually, nobody's a monkey, we're called humans. Or, better yet, we're called people. Monkeys are –"

Raffe cuts me off in the most acceptable way. His lips, soft, supple, yet firm, press against mine, and, after a small noise of surprise, my eyes flutter shut and I answer the pleas of his hungry mouth. Though it isn't the light brush it'd been outside my hotel room door, it isn't the passionate kiss of the aerie, either – sweet desire and panging lusts flavor the connection I forge with him. I knit my hands through his hair, standing on the balls of my feet, to draw closer to his heat, his heartbeat, his eager mouth on mine. And Raffe does not protest – he clutches me against him fervently, just as pleased to envelope me in his muscled mass as I am to sink into it.

As we break apart, I both breathing heavily, I notice things I hadn't seen before as I study Raffe – the evening light highlights his hair with shades of orange and gold. His swollen pupils catch the gleam of the sunset in their sea of black. Even the dark leather stretched between the spokes of his bat wings is furnished by the light of the dying sun, like the topaz jewels on a king's long dark cloak.

"Raphael!" Bryon's voice echoes through the courtyard – though I could be mistaken, I could swear he sounds amused. "We have a deadline!"

"Haven't you ever heard of the laws of Public Displays of Affection, man?" Hugo criticizes, folding his arms and glowering at Raffe from one of the arches. "Not everyone wants to see you and Penryn snogging it out right there. I mean, a third of tumblr does, but –" He breaks off with a delighted laugh, burying his head into the palm. "Did I seriously just use the word 'snog'? I spend too much time watching British sci-fi."

"What are you talking about?" Raffe sighs in exasperation, his grip around me loosening. A single hand remains casually twined around my hip, and I'm not sure he's willing to remove it anytime soon.

"He's bizarre, I advise ignoring it," Bryon chuckles, flexing his bronze wings. As we approach, I begin to notice and admire the handiwork placed in the contraptions – it's not really like anything I've ever seen before, but it's from another era, so that can be expected.

I open my mouth to comment on it, but my spotlight is stolen by a little boy, maybe nine or ten, as he stumbles up to Bryon and grips his leg tightly, burying his face into my uncle's pants.

Bryon's eyebrows shoot up. His attention completely focuses on the boy, and any remark I might've made would've passed unnoticed; Raffe would have heard – not necessarily cared, but heard – and Hugo is still chuckling over his British vocabulary.

"Is it true that my papa's not coming back?" the little child questions, wrenching his face from Bryon's calf to stare up at the Dragon King with wide, fearful eyes.

"What?" Bryon's tender voice is colored with receding disbelief and still developing comfort. "Why would you think that he wasn't, Kyle?"

"It's what my sister says." The boy's lower lip trembles. "She was talking with Mama about how Papa and everyone else are not going to come back. They will, right? They have to!"

"Your Papa will," Bryon murmurs, his voice like folds of warm silk, "but not all of them." Bryon kneels down, placing both hands on the boy's shoulders. "Not everyone returns unharmed from the clutches of battle. War is vicious and cruel, and it takes its hapless victims without a second glance. It's why I so much prefer times of peace when compared to times of war."

Something maliciously shifts in the child's demeanor. He takes his sapphire eyes and meets Raffe's gaze with them, peeling back his lips to bare a set of lengthening slender fangs. "I hate angels!" he snaps, glaring murderously at Raffe. "I hate them! They kill people! You kill people! I hate you!"

Bryon's eyebrow cocks. "They have done many things wrong," he notes fairly, "but does that make them all bad? Is each and every one of them as awful as the rest?"

The boy's furious gaze swivels to Bryon, and he gnashes his teeth in frustration. "You said it yourself! Angels are trained to have no personalities! No sympathy, or mercy, or anything that makes a living creature a living creature! What was it you said? You said that a creature without a beating heart isn't a creature at all!"

Bryon sighs wearily. "But, Kyle, angels do have beating hearts. They are every bit as alive as you and I are. They have minds of their own, personalities of their own. Tell me..." His eyes scan the courtyard until they fall on Miguel where he still slouches, half-hidden behind a flower bush. "Are you like Miguel? Do you share in his raucous behavior?"

Kyle seems appalled. "No! No, sir!"

"Well, are you like Emilio, then?"

The boy's eyes shine. "I wish I was, sir."

"And yet," Bryon thrums, "you all share the same name: _Nephilim_. Is every Nephilim like the next? Our principles are such: benevolence over belligerence. We value the traits of kindness, understanding, and mercy over those of anger, unkemptness, and malice. Yet here we are; Miguel shows us his unkempt actions, and Emilio reveals his malice in each strike of his blade. Does this mean that angels may have stray traits as well?"

Cocking his head, the boy stutters, "I... I... I don't understand, King."

Bryon hums to himself, studying the heavens above with a contemplating shimmer in those bronze eyes. "In our society, benevolence is glamoured as the best of things, the quality that is most important, a trait that stands above all else. In the same heartbeat, belligerence tends to be squashed out, belittled and scolded. Belligerence is our bane. And yet, is it not in our ranks? Are you perfect? You yourself show anger, and I'm willing to bet that many other darker thoughts cross your mind.

"The angels are the opposite of our society; their benevolence is stamped out, chased from their beings by the harshness and cruelty or others. Belligerence is the garb of the popular, the powerful, the kings of their ranks, the archangels. And so that is what they treasure, what they adore and admire. But tell me this, Kyle: if we have belligerence even when we are supposed to be those with only benevolence harbored in our hearts, is it possible that they, too, have hidden lights of kindness, of understanding, of mercy? I knew an angel with the most benevolent spirit in the world, long ago. Perhaps you, too, will meet her, and will see yourself how misleading a stereotype can be."

Still, the boy looks dubious. "I don't know. If they're nice, why do they kill so much? Nice people don't kill. I still think they're meanies."

"It still doesn't give us reason enough to despise them." His lips pull back in a sweet smile, his eyes melt. "We are all the Children of God. No matter our species or our categorization, our personality or our rank, we are all equals in His eyes. Whether we have wings or tails, horns or scales, we are all one beneath the sky we walk. None of us are better than anyone else because of any physical, emotional, or mental beliefs and appearances. We are all the Children of God, and none of us can deny that. Live your life with all you meet as your equals, none as your superiors and none as your inferiors, and you shall find the world to be a much more benevolent place itself."

"I guess that makes sense." The boy looks up at Raffe with a more thoughtful gleam buried in the blue eyes. "But I still don't think I like angels."

"No one is expecting you to. After all, no Child of God is without flaw." Tousling the child's hair, Bryon stands, and faces Raffe as well. "I wish I could spend the rest of the night sitting here beneath the stars, but we've got places to be and not much time to get there. Shall we be off?"

"I suppose so." Raffe seems slightly shaken by Bryon's speech, as if something had hit a nerve, or maybe pulled a heartstring. "You're the leader. You decide, Monster Man."

Bryon rolls his eyes, but he flexes his wings, lifting their long blades to the setting sun. By the light of the orange eye sinking below the horizon, their polished surfaces turn into mirrors, reflecting the sun's gleam. "Goodbye, Penryn. Bid farewell to Paige for me. I would hug you, but there's a chance I'd impale you." He lifts a bronze wing in example.

I smile at him. "Bye, Bryon. See you soon!"

"Hopefully." He eyes Raffe reproachfully, as if he's already is regretting his decision to embark alongside the archangel. "Let's just go, shall we?" Without another word, he beats those metal wings once or twice. My mouth drops open as, somehow, they take him higher and higher into the air.

Raffe's gaze falls on my awe. "Flying monster. Next they'll have flying monkeys. Maybe you should've been the Wicked Witch of the West instead of the Evil Princess."

I roll my eyes and elbow him. "Don't get yourself killed, Raffe. And don't get under Bryon's skin. I'm serious. The last thing you need is a giant dragon stomping around and stepping on your feathers."

Raffe eyes me gravely. "The same goes for you. Demons are tricky, don't let it get under your skin, and don't make a stupid deal. Watch out for Pooky Bear, if you trade her to that devil, I swear I will wring your little monkey neck." He releases me, stepping back, and opens his leathery wings. His muscles tense and flex, preparing for his ascent with impressive ferocity. "And, Penryn?"

"Yeah?"

"Keep yourself safe."

Raffe rockets into the air, shooting past Bryon with great sweeps of his black wings. Against the orange sky, their inky color is darkened further, no more than the fluttering of shadows. Bryon, thrown off by the winds Raffe leaves in his wake, wobbles in flight, and starts shouting in a foreign launguage with terms I'm certain are not pleasant. Raffe laughs thunderously, and flaps onward without looking back, his shadow melting into the sea of gold until he is no more than a line against the sunset.

"Curse you, Raffe the Pigeon-Bat!" Hugo cries with a sloppy German accent, shaking a fist to the sky. In response to his bellow, another creature squeals with the hurt of one left behind by trusted friends. From beside Hugo's side, an infant Nephilim takes to the sky, bronze and white wings catching the light of the dying sun like little suncatchers. She flaps smoothly up to Bryon, spiraling around him a few times to announce her arrival.

"Oh!" Bryon laughs harder than Raffe, his smile evident in his cadence. "What's this? A stowaway? Well, if you insist!"

Belle shrieks with joy, and quickly flies beyond Bryon, leaving him in the dust to race after Raffe. I grin after their forms, waving as they disappear into the golden light, disappearing into the eye of the setting sun. Even after they're gone, that bizarre group of archangels and beasts and baby beasts, I find myself watching as the sun dies and as the last topaz tear slips over the horizon and the last shaft of orange slides behind the crest of the hill.

* * *

**This probably would've been out a few days ago if it hadn't been for Windows 8. So, I apologize for that. I was also fiddling with another idea for a one-shot, but I'm not quite pleased with it. If I release it, it'll be very different than what I spent an entire day typing up.**

**Again, we've got a long chapter, so I apologize for that, too. The length should be scaling down again, so hopefully they won't be such a mouthful in the future.**

**To whom it concerns: thank you for addicting me to that song, I needed that playing in my mind 24/7. It's a good song, though, and I like it! Thank you again!**

**POLL: Thoughts on Emilio?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	29. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Chapter Twenty Eight**

The gaping hole in the hill looks to me more like an inky black gullet than a wolf's den – light does not seem to reach far into the tunnel, as if the shadows saturate the air. My skin crawls at the lack of greenery in the desolate clearing, as if the wolf's presence had warded off any shrubs or weeds. Only Scruffy seems unaffected by the baleful aura draping the clearing like a heavy tarp.

In fact, the cheerful wolf seems mildly excited to be at the home of his girlfriend. He grins broadly at everyone assembled, licking enthusiastically at the faces of anyone that dares draw close. Seeing him so positive shouldn't be as much of a balm to my nerves as it is – after all, he doesn't truly comprehend the danger of the situation, being safe from both the crazy man-eating she-wolf lying in wait in the bowels of her crypt and the demonic deal-maker awaiting my call at the center of the maze.

At the thought of both threats, I swallow and turn my gaze to Hugo as he helps Ogden over a fallen log blocking the path. As if he could feel my eyes probing his, Hugo turns to me.

"Are you sure about this?" I question again, my voice quavering slightly. "Can't at least Scruffy come with me halfway?"

Hugo's eyebrows shoot up. "Getting cold feet? Don't worry, we've got a plan. You need to hear it again?"

I hesitate, then briskly nod. "Wouldn't hurt. Start from the beginning, please. I don't want to forget anything once I'm in there."

"You really don't," Hugo agrees, nodding his head solemnly. "Okay, so, here's how it works. First off, you're going to need to get past Jane. Shouldn't be that difficult to find her, because, more likely than not, she'll come to you. Already knows we're here, probably. Isn't that reassuring!"

"Very," I mumble dryly.

"So, once Jane finds you, she's going to probably question and quiz and experiment with you using her evolved wolf brain telepathy. Unlike someone else in this clearing – ahem, _you_ – she's a very powerful telepath, with an impressive mental capacity. Insane counts for something, right? But her insanity also makes her very touchy, very dangerous. She'll interrogate you, try to figure out why you're snooping around her den, try to chase you off. You've just got to make sure she thinks you're worthy to be navigating her labyrinth of skulls. If the capricious bitch doesn't deem you worthy of her crypt, she'll eat you, but that hardly ever happens."

"How should I prove my worth, again?" I ask, verifying the information one final time before it's put to the test.

"Um, like, act tough and stuff. Be very certain about what you want to do – you want to call upon Lucius to help your sister. Stay adamant with beliefs and moral. She'll probably try to warp your words and make it seem like you were talking about something else entirely, or provoke you in all sorts of manners. If you cooperate with all her questions and answer every one of them but remain firm, she'll let you pass, and slink out through this entrance to skulk while you do your business with Lucius. She doesn't do well with the demon, for some reason."

"Right." I release a long, slow, measured sigh through my nose, attempting to release the tension knotting my stomach alongside it. "Okay. Okay. And assuming I do get past Jane, what then?"

"Well." Hugo grins at me with a maniacal gleam in his eyes. "You'll start off without my influence, of course, but as soon as Jane slinks from that hole" – he points towards the mouth of her den – "I'll contact you. If I contact you beforehand, she'll get pissed about outside interference and fly into a rage, which wouldn't be fun. As she struts out, I'll use my awesome mental powers to contact you." He gazes at me pensively, a critical gleam coating the coppery opalescence in his eyes. "We have practiced enough, haven't we? I mean, I _think_ it's been more than enough time for you to grow used to telepathic messages in your brain, but you're really a slow learner."

"I've got it down." That, at least, I am confident upon. "Not even a headache, from you or Ogden."

"Not from Ogden anymore?" Delight spreads Hugo's face into a broad grin. "Good job, Penryn! I applaud you! So, phew, we won't be worrying about that, at least. Well, not that it was all that probable we would – from the day we set off, we were training you best we could, and now – what, a week later? – you can finally handle stuff! Once I see Jane, I'll get in your head and guide you through the labyrinth."

"Yeah." I nod, well-educated about this stage of his plan. "You're used to finding your way because you always get pulled in there by Scruffy, so you'll be all good with the surroundings and be able to guide me to the center of the den. I've got that part of the plan."

"Good, good!" Hugo pats Scruffy on the cheek, looping fingers through the wolf's breast collar. "Yeah, Scruffy's always dragging me into Jane's den for some reason or another. Silly little boy…" Scruffy's tongue gingerly slurps up the side of Hugo's face, his eyes glowing affectionately. Hugo breaks off with a laugh, cuddling his wolf's head between two hands and pressing their foreheads together. "Stop that!"

I smile at the pair of them. I'm mildly certain I know the rest of the plan – besides, if I lose my memory suddenly, Hugo can always reeducate me again at that point. As I reach the main chamber, I need to light up a torch in all four corners of the room. On the floor, the shadows of the satanic symbol needed to bind Lucius should still remain from past callers, I just need to refresh it with my bottled lamb's blood, which clanks awkwardly against my hip as I walk. Ogden will come into my mind and help me from thereon out.

Comforted by a refresh in the plan, I reach down and squeeze Paige's shoulder, smiling gently down at her. "When we get into the maze, stay right beside me, okay? Hold my hand, and don't leave my side. It's dark in there, and, if you leave me alone, I'll get really scared."

Paige beams at me, gripping my leg in a little hug.

"Ah, Penryn?" Hugo lifts an iPhone, vibrating and lit up in his hand. "It's Bryon and/or Pigeon-Bat, you wanna pick it up?"

"Yeah." I lift my hands, preparing to catch the phone. "Toss it here, will ya?"

Hugo swings it underhandedly towards me, and I catch it easily. Stomach squirming and throat tight, I tap the screen and put the phone at my ear.

"Hello?" My heart squeezes.

"Penryn?" Bryon's voice is surprised on the other end of the phone, as if I hadn't been the person he'd expected to pick up the line. "Shouldn't you be inside Jane's den by now?"

"We were a bit pokey," I admit, not spilling the details of how I trudged my feet to this austere location. "But we're here now, right in front of her lair. It's kind of creepy, isn't it?"

"How are you feeling, Penryn?" Bryon questions, his voice soft, tender. "Are you alright?"

My hesitation is met with patience as I awkwardly glance around at my companions, then stray a little further from them all, unwilling to be heard. Lowering my voice, I ask, "Is Raffe around?"

"No." The warmth in his voice has not ebbed off, despite the long pause on my end nor the topic I'd brought up. "He's off for one last examination with Makiel without his friendly temper control, aka me. Why?"

Casting one last glance around the clearing and lowering my voice into a taut, raspy whisper, I murmur in strained tones, "I'm scared, Bryon. Really scared."

I feel as if I could drown in his warm voice, the way it swaddles me in comfort, even through the crappy cell phone quality. "Of course you are. I wish I could be there." I hear him sigh heavily. "Penryn, it's okay to be scared. Heck, I'm scared as hell, and I'm not even there with you. Fear in correct dosages isn't something necessarily horrible, though – but don't let yourself succumb to it."

"I'm trying." I breathe in, inhale stuttering with fear. "But it's hard. Really hard. I wish there was some other way I could do this."

"I know," Bryon murmurs, his voice quiet. "I do, too. I do. But I know that you can do this. It's the reason I can keep my own fear under tabs. Trust me." A sliver of harshness enters his voice. "I wouldn't let you do anything I didn't think you couldn't handle. And there's not a lot you can't handle; one of those rare things isn't a wimpy demon with daddy issues."

I smile weakly. "Thanks, Bryon. But does he have daddy issues?"

"He's the son of Lucifer. That guy can't be king of warm and fuzzy. Penryn, there's not that much of a reason to be worried. If you can't get a good deal, you don't have to make one. Paige… we can figure something out, can't we?"

"I just have to remember not to look him in the eyes, and I'll be good," I sigh, not wholly pleased with that. "And he'll be trying to get me to look at him, won't he? He's a trickster."

"Well, yes. But you know not to look him in the eye, and he can only do so much to convince you. I believe in you." Affection shines through his words. "You'll get out of this, don't worry. Failure isn't even a possibility, you understand? You've got this."

"I've got this." I breathe out, closing my eyes, focusing on the words and calming the rapid beating of my heart. "Alright, okay. Thanks, Bryon. Hugo didn't mention I could just walk out of it."

"Well, Hugo… he and I think very differently." Bryon chuckles lightly, a cheerful laugh that brightens my spirits considerably. "I'd better let you go – Belle is starting to get anxious. She really has taken to Raphael, and Raphael to her, though he won't admit it. Stubborn angel, that one… Good luck, Penryn. You won't need it, though."

I blush and smile. "Bye, Bryon. Talk to you later…?"

"Count on it," Bryon promises, already sounding distracted, as if he's focusing on the task at hand. "Goodbye, Penryn."

"Bye."

I slip the phone back into my pocket instead of giving it to Hugo. Somehow, the artifact of modern technology amongst all the demonic voodoo is comforting, and I doubt he'll notice it's missing until I've disappeared down the tunnel.

Hugo sidles up, smiling crookedly, his coppery eyes glazed in mischief and his grinning face glazed in a layer of Scruffy's slobber. "What words of wisdom did Bryon grant?"

"Said I could do it. Said he believed in me. Stuff like that."

"Well." Hugo tilts his head to one side. "You can do it, and he does believe in you, so, as far as I can tell, he wasn't lying. If that hullaballoo is cleared up, let's do a last minute gear check, shall we? I'll announce an article of adventure you should have somewhere on your person, and you will say _check_ if you do, and if you don't, you will improvise. Ready? Go! Flashlight."

I check my coat pocket. "Check."

"Matches for lighting up torches."

"Check."

"Pooky Bear in case Jane gets too violent."

"Check."

"The jacket that I totally can't see right now."

I roll my eyes. "Check."

"Lamb's blood."

"Check."

"Sticky note with the incantation on it."

"Check."

"Paige."

"Paige?" I call out, meeting her gaze and smiling, beckoning her over. "Come here, baby. We're about to go down into the scary place, and I need you to take care of me."

Obediently, she waddles over, entwining her clammy fingers through mine.

"Right. So." Hugo crosses his arms over his chest, cocking his head back, smirking at me with almost a bittersweet emotion. I drink in the sight of him like this – sly and poised, his gangly limbs folded together, the metallic bits in his hair gleaming with the light leaking through the grey cloud cover, and the black tattoo inked at his nape peeking from the rim of his aviator's jacket.

"So what?" I question, meeting his bright coppery eyes.

"Well, you're going." Hugo tilts his head, studying me from slits of his eyes, his lips quirking. "And we're bidding our farewells. So I might as well tell you that I think you're a great girl, Penryn, and that it's been an honor walking beside you for a few miles. Honestly, I will always remember those short, brief, uncomfortable miles we walked together. Sincerely. Truly."

"Shut up," I groan, rolling my eyes at his melodramatic air. "Hey, don't get yourself killed out here, alright? And I'll see you again."

Hugo beams delightedly. "Look at that! A little chit chat with uncle'll make anything better, won't it?" His arms splay apart, a clear invitation for an embrace. "Give me a hug, will ya?"

The laughter this promotes loosens the tight knot of stress in my chest. I wrap my arms around him and squeeze, breathing in the cinnamon scent clinging to his clothes. "You are just like Scruffy, you know that?"

"Oh, now, don't go that far," Hugo chides playfully, tugging a strand of my hair. "True, we have some alike qualities, but I do not go slobbering all over your face."

"Could've fooled me," I grunt as his grip tightens even further. "Watch the ribs, you."

"Sorry." Hugo releases me, taking a step back, already grinning again. "Hey, watch your ass in those tunnels, okay? Don't let down your guard."

"Okay. Don't worry about me." I turn to where Ogden watches with a kindly smile. "Can I get a hug from you, too?"

Awkwardly, Ogden slings one arm over my shoulder and grips me against him with a firm, solid embrace. He smells smoky, singed, but not wholly unpleasant. He grunts something I assume is a good luck before retracting. The old man smiles gently at me, his face softly lined and his shoulders slack. His dark brown eyes twinkle as brightly as ever.

"I'll see you, too, Ogden," I promise. "And maybe then you'll teach me how to carve like you do, eh?"

He glances down to one of the numerous pockets, assumedly the one carrying his whittling knife, and smiles an agreement.

"And you, Scruffy." I turn to the grinning wolf. "You don't have any idea what's going on, do you? Look at you." I laugh to myself, reaching out to fondle the fluffy fur by his ears. "Love ya, buddy."

Scruffy leans forward and snuffs at my hair, wet nose huffing away. He evidently finds something immensely interesting at my hairline, sniffing up and down the ridge without pause. After finding the source of whatever scent he detected in the first place, he puffs out thoughtfully, and then laps at my forehead in consolation.

"Uh, thanks, man." I pat his nose. "So, see you soon."

I back away from the wolf, keeping my palm extended towards him to ward off his tongue. Scruffy seems distressed by my retreat, only held back by Hugo pressing him back.

"Good luck, Penryn," he grunts as Scruffy whines and rears up behind him. "This is as good a chance as ever to get in there."

I nod, tightening my grip around Paige's hand. "Any last sage words?"

"Those spare batteries aren't just there for kicks. Demons don't like technology, and Lucius is no different. He'll try to bust your flashlight. You can lengthen its life by popping in extras."

"Got it." I turn my back on the group, gently pulling Paige behind me, approaching the darkness of the tunnel reluctantly. I swallow, throat going dry. "Alright, well, don't die from boredom."

Sucking in my breath, I take the first step into the darkness of the mad wolf's den. Paige, quivering slightly, follows immediately. I grapple for my flashlight and flick it on before continuing deeper into the mass of shadows awaiting to suck me into their embrace – the single beam of light, though powerful, does little to assist me on lighting up anywhere but where I point its face.

"Bye, guys!" I call, waving over my shoulder. Hugo flicks his hand in a mocking salute, Ogden waves erratically, and Hugo wags his tail at even crazier speeds.

Initially, there are no skulls paving the tunnels, nor any bones to be seen – it isn't nearly as terrible to carefully plod down that first length of darkness as it is later on. But it still is eerie – I hear noises, noises that sound as if they were issued from a human mouth, not a lupine one. Moans and wails echo off the walls, through the labyrinth, distant and soft as a sigh; other spectral noises that I can't quite place sound randomly, noises like a gong's tone, the heavy grate of what could be a body being dragged over the ground, and the sound of a couple of puppies yipping softly at the edge of my hearing but then suddenly cutting off with a sound like bodies crunching against stone.

Paige doesn't assist my jumpiness in any way – she huddles close against my leg, hissing at things I can't see and shying away from the areas the flashlight beam doesn't touch.

I lose track of distance pretty soon, and, after a while, I come to a split in the shafts, and at last run into the bones.

Paige clutches my leg, aghast.

In the middle of the two paths, at the corner they form, is a mural of bones. At the very center is a skull, much broader and thicker than I've ever seen one to be, the forehead crowned with a few peeling feathers. Surrounding the grinning head is a ray of femurs like a sun's beams, and then one of rib bones, and then a ring of what I assume is wing bones. A bed of crumpled feathers lies beneath the sculpture.

I stare at the horrifying artwork, wondering exactly how many souls had been sacrificed for this sickening warning. True, they're probably all angelic souls, judging by the thickness of the bones, but it's still awful to see the proof of a creature displaying the dead remains of another as artwork.

"Which way should we go, sweetie?" I whisper, trying to pull my attention away from the sockets of the angel's skull. "I guess it doesn't really matter. Jane's supposed to come to us."

I shiver, not gaining much comfort from that thought.

Making a rapid decision, I furl my hand tighter around hers, and head down the left tunnel.

After only a few feet, my flashlight beam catches on the white gleam of bones. My heart gives another jump as another wail echoes distantly, but I keep marching, knowing that if ghosts were a thing to worry about, Hugo would've told me.

Skulls line from floor to ceiling, with an occasional neck-bone jammed inside the eye sockets. The yellow flashlight's beam dances through their eye sockets and the shadows waltz in their brain cavities. Feathers of individual colors still stick to the foreheads of many, dusty remnants of each angel's soul, their being, the creatures they were before they became stray skulls stacked on top of each other, almost like nametags to categorize each one of them. Their teeth grin savagely at me – some are missing jaws. Others have teeth missing from their grins, more still have toothless mouths. As I walk, my foot accidentally kicks a spare jaw, sending it rattling over the stone. It spirals lazily, hitting a skull as it calms.

The sound of the jaw across the stone echoes through the corridor, captured in the hollow skulls and whispered from ear to ear. My skin crawls as I follow its trail over the stone, stomach lurching at the rotting teeth it had left behind.

A soft hissing causes me to jump out of my skin. It rattles through the skulls and slithers through the tunnel. Paige is the one hissing, I realize. I turn to her to see a finger held to her lips, still hissing low in her throat.

_Quiet_, she seems to warn.

"Sorry," I mouth at her, and we continue walking through the den.

The eyes of the skulls seem to follow me as I pass, the shadows cast by the flashlight bringing every dead angel to life, each grinning malevolently, as if they blaze the way into a trap. It makes me wonder how many of their brethren these skulls had witnessed being dragged down through the chambers, how many angels the dead had seen plodding down the gullet of the white beast that'd trapped them all, never to return. I shiver as the tunnel stretches onward.

How had she collected so many skulls? I find myself pondering upon that as I wander aimlessly, making mindless choices at intersections, steering Paige away from gruesome statues and murals fashioned from bones. True, according to Hugo, the killing of angels had gone on for centuries by the hand of Jane – but how many angels could there be if she could continue slaying in such abundant numbers? How had they not noticed such a loss of people? Had they thought that the missing ones had Fallen? Or do angels die easier than Raffe had hinted at?

A stray thought hits me – could we run into Raffe's angel friend, the one Jane had slain, somewhere in this labyrinth? He must be here somewhere, still stinking of decaying flesh, on display like a trophy. These skulls surrounding us seem old, layered in dust, the bedraggled tiaras of feathers spiraling to the ground, but surely elsewhere, fresh bones are being stacked, their own flesh forming the glue used to mantle the crowns of plumage.

I halt, squinting at something ahead of us. Training the beam of the flashlight straight ahead, I squint, trying to be sure that I'd seen it in the first place. But the alarming whiteness in the sea of black had vanished, making me wonder if I had ever seen it in the first place.

"Paige?" I glance down at her. "Stay close."

She nods, clutching my leg as the dragging sound echoes from behind us again.

I creep forward, hand lightly gripping the hilt of Pooky Bear, worried that I might find something unsavory in these tunnels. True, Hugo said that Jane keeps her halls clean, but if I have been wandering so long without running into the mad wolf, maybe other creatures had found their way into these dark tunnels. It's a perfect lair, forged with the bones of those reigning at the top of the food chain.

At the end of the tunnel, a commodious chamber awaits, the first of the likes I'd stumbled across. On each wall of the square-shaped room is a tunnel, and crowning each tunnel is an arch of mummified wings – feathers still cling to the bones, flaky skin sheathing the joints and hiding the dry sinew. Blood stains the ground and dissected organs litter the stone – beneath all that gore, however, are symbols and runes, carved crudely into the earth, as if someone had taken a dagger – or claw – and scratched it into the stone. Wind chimes of finger bones rattle above, suspended by pieces of twine from the ceiling. On crudely built shelves are angel parts floating in uncapped jars of foul yellow fluid, and pinned to the walls are angel skeletons and carcasses. One angel has stakes through his palms and another through his abdomen, the cruel barbs on the stone poles that emerge from the wall pin him in place – at first, I believe he's as dead as the other specimen, but as he sees me, he coughs and spits blood.

Pained eyes peel apart, then squint at the flashlight's glare. The angel's nearly severed wings twitch and then spasm, flailing on his back. Bite marks are visible all over his torso, the puncture wounds of long fangs speckling over his shoulders and chest. I clap a hand over my mouth. Jane hadn't been just collecting angels, she's been – doing whatever she's doing to this angel.

How could a wolf do all this? Without thumbs? Before I can dam the flood of morbid imagination, I envision a wolf ramming the angel's limp body onto spikes jutting from the wall, her forehead braced against his stomach as she shoves him through the brutal center stake.

I shouldn't feel pity as the angel lolls his head around, dangling from the wall like a rag doll, covered in scars, but as it meets my gaze with agonized brown eyes, I see only Paige – Paige, trapped in a gruesome lab like something from her worst nightmares, watching monsters dissect and stitch up her fellows while she was helpless – does this angel, trapped against the wall, feel helpless? Could he be scared? What about the angels he has in his battalions? Are they missing him? Wondering where he could be? Could the angel be thinking about them even now, at the mercy of one so corrupted by madness?

Before I can move to free him from his pegs or put him out of his misery, the angel's attention is drawn elsewhere. Head snapping up, he focuses on another tunnel, brown eyes blinking the blood from their lashes. Almost instantly, he begins to strain against his restricting spikes, fear sending quivers through his body. His wings thrash and flap, showing me that one of them is connected to his body by only a tendon.

I slink back into the dark recesses of the way I'd come, fearing what the angel so obviously finds terror in. Paige begins to quake like a leaf caught in a great wind as a white shape emerges from the darkness of the tunnel the angel stares down, as silent as the shadows from which she comes.

I, too, begin to shake.

Jane slaughters the angel the way I may swat at a fly – her fangs fly to his jugular, despite the wings slamming against her chest, warding her off, and she rips outward. His throat flies across the room and hits one of the mummified wings, falling to the floor with a wet thump. The angel goes limp against his pegs. And, without another glance towards her victim, Jane fixes her amethyst gaze on me.

_Why do you seek my madness?_

Beneath her thick coat of fur, muscles stir – this predator, her appearance, so clean-cut and pristine, is absolutely beautiful, in the most terrible of ways. And that fascinates me, the way a bird is frozen in a snake's gaze. As I do not answer, though, Jane's lips prick in the beginning of a snarl.

_Who are you?_

After waiting several more seconds for an answer, Jane sits down without a fuss, regardless of my terror or Paige's growling. A neat, fluffy white tail wraps around her bloodied paws, effectively shielding them from view. Her purple eyes are astonishingly bright against her albino fur, as is the splash of crimson at her lips. Even with the beam of the flashlight trained on her, I doubt that her crisp white fur would be hard to spot.

"Penryn Young," I stammer. "I've come –"

_Yes, yes, I know who you are_. Jane sounds almost impatient. _But who_ are _you?_

I stare at the gorgeous snowy white wolf without an ounce of understanding, Pooky Bear still gripped tightly in my clammy hands.

The wolf sighs, a rumbling noise that echoes eerily through the torture room. Her purple eyes slide shut and her inky black lips prick. _English is the most terrible language. I know who you are – Penryn Young, that is your name, who you are. But who is Penryn Young, that is what muddles me_.

"I'm still not sure I understand," I say slowly, not willing to answer a question I don't fully comprehend in fear of answering incorrectly.

Jane rises from her haunches, the smooth flow of sinew and muscle spooking me. She stalks towards me, purple eyes burning. My knees knock, but I don't back down, instead meeting her in the corner of the room with a slow, rigid stride. Paige whimpers in protest.

Growling softly, Jane begins to circle me in slow, methodically shrinking loops, one purple eye focused on mine. _Who are you, Penryn Young? You are not like your uncle, you are not like your father, you are not like your mother, you are not like your grandmother, nor are you like your grandfather. Who are you_?

"Are you sure I'm not like Paige?" I mutter sarcastically, gritting my teeth.

_I have already listed your sister._

I don't remember her having said that, but arguing further with the mad as she circles me would not be a clever idea. "Why am I not like any of them, then? People say Thea and I are pretty similar."

_Thea is ruthless and unkind. Only those that share her blood can feel any amount of her fondness. She will stop at nothing to kill those that challenge anyone she loves. And she does not love easily_. Jane pauses for a moment, the fur at her withers bristling. _You are not like Thea. You are not so ruthless. My actions with this angelic bastard have proved this_.

I flick the flashlight beam over her to the face of the angel, how it remains, frozen in agony for all eternity. "You're going to slice him up, aren't you? Like you did all the others. His head'll be mounted on your wall."

_If he's lucky. And, you see, darling, your compassion for one such as him proves that you are not like Thea. Heaven forbid I make the jump that you resemble your grandfather. So much rage in the face of his enemies, and yet such a gentle creature… boisterous, of course, and not the sharpest tool in the shed, but loyal to a fault, and the most stubborn man to have ever walked this Earth_.

"What if I don't resemble any of my family members?" I challenge, keeping Paige firmly planted behind me as Jane grows slightly closer. "What if I'm original? What then?"

_Nonsense. Everyone resembles a family member more strongly than the rest, but you do not resemble your grandmother, your grandfather, or your uncle. No, there is not a soul alive that would mistake you for Bryon_.

Though I'm not sure how much I appreciate her vicious tone as she points out the difference between my noble uncle and I, I keep a level head about it. "Well, of course no one's like Bryon. The guy's a living legend."

_More than that_. There is almost grudging respect dragging at the emotion in her words. _He is a good man, a man with a golden heart – but around that golden heart sleeps a monster. The fact that something so foul resides inside him, and the fact that he resents it more than anyone is enough to tell that he is different from any other like him. He could choose power, he could rise above the rest and be the greatest dictator this world has ever known. But instead, he chooses to inspire, to influence. He never requires an audience, yet he finds one, all the same. No, you are nothing like your uncle_.

"Thank you," I mutter, shooting daggers at the wolf. "So, have your observations showed you who I am yet?"

_You do not have the burden of your mother's undiluted madness. You are not like your father, either, though you two carry many same characteristics. A hidden familial connection, many issues with your parental guardian, unkind and malicious with those that hurt you, determined. And yet you do not have the same desire to be left by yourself. You seek companionship and you despise being by yourself. This was evident many times over your trek this direction_.

"How do you know anything about that?" I wonder. She might as well have been milk, flowing through the shadows – she moves just as fluidly, a ghostly streak of white in the darkness.

_Is this not obvious? I have been aware of your coming here ever since you set out. That foolish mongrel does not know how to keep his trap shut._

A sharp flair of anger burns in my gut. "Are you talking about Scruffy?"

The wolf pauses, her mane of lush white fur ruffling around her face. Her one purple eye blazes in the blackness, and her black lips pull over her jaws in a maddened grin, as broad as each of the skulls' grimaces and with gums as red as freshly spilt blood. Thick white fangs curl over her lower jaw.

_As it so happens, I am talking about the wolf you two-legged creatures refer to as 'Scruffy'. His true name is, unfortunately, too complex for your minds to handle, and his greatness too massive for you to see him as anything more than a pup. And despite all that greatness, he cannot keep a secret to save his life. Of course_ – the wolf's voice takes on an amused tone – _ the idiot would do anything for his master, so if he knew he was betraying the Hugo one, he would've thought twice_.

"Don't call him an idiot!" My fist clenches around the hilt of Raffe's sword. "He worships you, you know that?"

_I do, as a matter of fact. And I him. But only a fool chooses a madwoman to bear his pups, and a fool that wolf is._

"Wait." My anger is muffled by blunt confusion. "You bore his pups? Scruffy has pups?"

Jane growls softly, but it sounds regretful, maybe even guilty. Her neat ears press against her skull, and her lips fall back over her teeth. Almost as if refusing to meet my gaze, she turns her head away, holding it low and shamefully.

"Scruffy has pups?" I repeat. As she continues to ignore me, head turned away from mine, I harden myself, distrust taking the place of fear, imagining her instead as my mother. "Answer the question."

And, at the sound of my voice, broiling with hints of fury, streaked with suspicion and wariness, painted with the steely colors of disapproval and brushed over with hints of superiority, Jane's temper begins to heat, reminding me that she is in no way like my mom.

She lifts her head and growls furiously at me, the purple eyes an inferno of rage. Instead of mere murmurs, licking the back of my mind with their crazed power, her words roll over my thoughts like tidal waves, tenacious and inescapable.

_Who are you, Penryn Young to act as if I follow your command?_ A rabid snarl echoes through the den, rebounding off the high ceilings and stone walls. _And_ here, _of all places! In my domain! You come here and you seek to bring forth my enemies! You act as if you know my beloved better than I! You plunder my secrets and you insult my maze of bones!_

"I insult your maze of bones because you made a maze from dead angels." I grind my teeth. "I hate God's messengers as much as the next girl, but you're just creepy, and your maze is even creepier."

Jane doesn't bellow anymore – my stomach lurches at a sudden air gripping the room, and my hands grow sweaty on the hilts of sword and flashlight. Jane halts in her restless pacing at the sound of my defiance, slowly wheeling around to meet my gaze with both of her vivid purple eyes. A raw madness burns there, narrowing her pupils to miniscule pinpoints – if she hadn't been looming directly in front of me, separated by mere feet, I wouldn't have been able to see the black specks drowning in a sea of violet. Slowly, very slowly, her wrathful snarl lifts into a crazy grin.

And then the wolf disappears in a flash of white.

Desperately, I attempt to follow her with the flashlight's beam, but I can't catch sight of her – she might as well have vanished.

Instead of a mental bellow rattling my thoughts with each word, her voice is fleeting and insubstantial, like a gust of wind tickling the corners of my subconscious.

_Oh, little girl, you have meddled with the wrong monster. You, of all the people in the world, acting as if you are any better!_

Anger roasts in the pit of my stomach, its blaze overpowering the grip of fear. "I am better!" I shout at her, not fearing the ivory flash of her fangs. "I don't torture people! I don't leave them just stuck to walls! I don't do whatever you do in this room."

Warmth breath pools at the back of my throat and Paige scrambles away from its direction, but when I whirl around with a flashlight beam in hand, there's nothing to be seen.

_Stupid creature! Can you not see that you and the angels are on opposite sides of this war, that they themselves are not people at all? They did the same to your sister. They did the same to dozens others. Why do you think me a monster when I do this in the name of things right instead of the name of things gruesome?_

"Because he was hanging there!" I bark, clutching Paige tight. "He was like some sort of sick medical dummy on the wall! He had thoughts! He was a living creature! He realized he was going to die in this thick sea of blood and just become one of many! It doesn't matter if it was for good reasons or if it was to get your revenge, it was torture, cold-blooded torture! Don't you see that? Don't you see the horror they all witnessed? Nobody should have to go through that!"

_You're right! You're completely and utterly right!_ A bodiless snarl sounds from somewhere in the room, echoed by the stone. _Nobody should go through with such agony! That is why it puzzles me you defend the cowardly swine! They took your sister from you, they sliced her up, they made her sit in agony without any method to kill the pain! Do you not see that this is for the children? For all those that have fallen prey to the bastards from above?_

"As if!" I cry. "As if this started then! This slaughtering has been happening for centuries, not for justice, but for your own sadistic pleasures! You're just as bad as them with your wannabe laboratory!"

_Do not tell me you are so naïve as to think that they haven't been slaughtering for centuries as well_. Cold scorn poisons Jane's mind. _They have laid waste to villages with their hellfire, they have slaughtered thousands! Here I sit in my lonesome home and I avenge each child that fell without a lullaby to send them off to sleep!_ Mad triumph blazes through my mind, so potent I cannot tell what thoughts are mine anymore. _I am a murderer of murderers! I give them their justice! There is nothing sadistic about it, and the flavor of their blood in my mouth is the only pleasure I receive! You have no argument! No reason to defend the angels! Perhaps your infatuation with Wrath has turned you into an angel yourself!_

"First of all, most of that makes no sense." I seriously consider taking out Pooky Bear, but, upon remembering Hugo's words of wisdom to leave her be, I cross out the idea. "Second of all – well, yeah, a lot of the angels have screwed up, and they've screwed up bad. But it doesn't give you a right to go around murdering murderers. Sure, a lot of them are evil, really, really evil, but that doesn't mean they all are. If you go around murdering each one of them, you'd never know that."

_Correct me if I'm wrong, but is that a teaching of Bryon?_ Abruptly, her rage falls away to icy inquisition. She appears at the mouth of one of the tunnels, her ears brushing the crusty feathers of the wings above her. _Have you learned something from being in his company? And I thought you came here without a lick of mercy for the dark and dangerous._

It dawns on me that perhaps Jane had not been acting under the influences of insanity as she'd paced about, as she'd provoked my anger and kindled my fear. Perhaps she'd been utterly sane and merely testing me, a test I can't help but wonder if I failed. Or maybe, maybe she's just a mad, mad wolf with more mood swings than actual emotions.

As if she'd picked up on my confusion, Jane woofs with something that could be a chuckle. _Dear, you were prodding a bear with a needle. Everyone has monsters within, I am simply brave enough to use mine for the good of all. It was a slight nuisance, your words, but nothing more. I am most interested, though, in what could be a sliver of mercy. _She cocks her head, raptured.

"I've got mercy. A lot more than you." With difficulty, I curb my anger, remembering Hugo's words to not stoke the wolf. Truthfully, the knowledge that I had not even irritated her is irking when she aggravates me so, but it is most likely for the better.

_You do have mercy. But not much more than I, so do not wield the powers of the gods_. Jane returns to her sinuous pacing, keeping that one eye on me. Somehow, it's even more eerie than before. _How you perplex me. Why do you seek this madness, Penryn Young? Why would one ever seek what plagues me?_

I frown. "Wait… plagues _you_? Are you saying that you looked into Lucius's eyes? Is that the reason why... you're..."

_I am saying I am what many call insane because of the devil people so commonly call to my den. I am not saying more than that. But why would you even take this risk, Penryn Young? As best I can tell, you have lived with your mother your whole life, and she has been insane since before then. I am at peace with the demons inside me, but you have shown much disgust towards my manner of thought and action. Why would you ever risk being remotely like her? Like me?_

"I'd do anything for Paige." Lifting my chin, I look the puzzled mad wolf in the eye. "Even brave my mom's demon for her."

Jane seems positively amused by that, her ears going slack. _Came prepared for a demon, did you? _I hope you're prepared. Things don't work quite like above where the sun's light never reaches.__

"You're right." Vehemently, I glare at her. "I came in here ready to face a demon. _One_ demon. It turns out there are two monsters slinking about in this hellhole."

Jane's mental cackle might not have been so creepy had she given any indication of the laughter on her lupine face – instead, as she wheezes for breath before launching into another peal, her face does not so much as twitch, her lips do not prick. The hallowing cackle still echoing in my skull, she rises without another word, turns her tail, and slips into the darkness of the tunnel from which she'd emerged in the first place.

_Oh, Penryn, you are a puzzle to me. I know your name, dearie, but I do not know who you are. I do, however, know the person you will become. I do not know why you seek madness so determinedly nor why you brashly choose to irritate the monsters haunting your sleep, but I do know that you shall not reemerge this deathtrap unchanged, dear child. You have my permission. God help you, God help us all_.

* * *

**From the jaws of one monster... into the jaws of the next.**

**To all those of interest, on a whim I decided that could help me paint out the gruesome manner of Jane and her living quarters, I made a one-shot. I hoped it'd help me truly capture the madness needed to really set Jane in motion. Did it work, or does she seem superficial?**

**POLL: Everyone seemed pretty convinced that Penryn could handle Lucius... except for Jane, the only one with any real, gory, first-hand experience about what happens when things go wrong. Coincidentally, she's also too terrified of the demon to even remain in her crypt while the demon is somewhere in its tunnels. It's not really much of a poll, I'll admit. Just something I'd like you to think about.**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	30. Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Chapter Twenty Nine**

_Penryn?_

Surprise slows my response to Hugo's hesitant call. I freeze in the long, skull-furnished corridor, gripping Paige's hand tightly. "Hugo? Jane's out of here already?"

_I told you, she's deathly afraid of Lucius. She was practically sprinting to escape. How did things go between the two of you? Which buttons did she push?_

I sigh to myself. "Well, for some reason, she let me pass, so that's something. But she was really making me mad. She's a madwoman, a sick madwoman, and she boasts about that."

There is a pause before Hugo speaks again. _No, she doesn't. Not in my experiences, anyway. Knowing her, she was acting the entire time, just playing the parts of a madwoman and a serial killer so she could extract character information from you._

"I don't know," I mutter dubiously.

_I can hear her as you relive events in your mind, and trust me, that's not like her. She doesn't like talking anywhere near that amount, for starters, and second of all, if she had an angel pinned like that, she would never just kill him. It would disrupt her experiment. Poor bastard was just part of the act._

"That doesn't exactly clear her actions," I disapprove, roving the flashlight's beam up and down the skulls.

_She's a madwoman, Penryn, but she's a good one. You snapping at her was fine in a test designed for you to do precisely that and most likely excusable, but steer clear of her from now on. Repent the moment you clap eyes on that wolf. I've seen her casually slaughter an ally because two days ago he'd refused to look her in the eye and she'd only then gotten around to butchering him. The capricious bitch is very, very good at killing for no good reason._

"Why doesn't someone take her down?" I wonder, half-convinced that Bryon would approve of an extermination mission after hearing about the terrors of her den.

_We've tried to, trust me. I've tried. But she's a ghost. She can detect your thoughts a second before you're aware of them yourself, so it's easy for her to outfox you. Don't you dare challenge her, Penryn Young. Your uncle would have my hide._

"Alright." Unhappily, I begin to trudge down the tunnel once again, pulling Paige along with me. "So, how do I get to the center of this hellhole? Where am I?"

_How the hell should I know? The halls all look the same. Wait until we get to an intersection, then I'll tell you._

"Okay." After a few moments of eerie silence, I contact him again. "So, what's everyone up to?"

_Well, after your comment about his whittling, Ogden has decided it's his God given mission to create an entire army of wooden garden gnomes to welcome you back. Bit creepy, honestly. Scruffy's still bouncing about, knocking over garden gnomes and licking Jane to death. I expect he'll have calmed down by the time you get out of there, but then you'll just rile him up again, won't you?_

I laugh. "And you? What are you doing?"

_Arguing quite viciously with a Raffyon shipper online. Also, watching the video of Gabriel getting shot over and over again to look for something I've missed. I'm also reimagining the entire Young family in a steampunk world with this lucky pencil of mine. Might post the sketches online. _

Ducking to avoid a particularly low ceiling, I chuckle to myself. "Multitasking, much?"

_It helps me think. No judgment in this place. Take a right here._

Complying, I shield Paige' s eyes from the mural of bones at the corner. "Does she have to be so brutal about everything?"

_We just don't appreciate her, I suppose. She's been successfully hunting the top predator in all the world for thousands of years without discovery. That is gruesomely amazing. She's just a hunter, and this is her gallery. Just like human hunters and human scientists with animals, really._

"Does she think of the angels as animals?" I notice the skulls progressively getting older as we continue. "It explains the slaughter..."

_I really just don't know enough about her to answer that question. Best I can tell, she doesn't really believe in souls or beings the way we do. She's got a very machinelike view on life, a view which tends to revolve around the profuse use of animalistic violence. In her mind, she's a predator, and her sole duty in life is to be a predator. So she kills angels in abundant numbers because it's her purpose in life. Keep going straight at this intersection._

"She's crazy," I marvel as I lead Paige through the fork in the path. "Absolutely bonkers."

_There's the million dollar question._ I swear Hugo sounds delightedly fascinated. _Is the madwoman mad at all? To be truthful, I don't think of her as truly mad by the typical definition. Just very, very different. She's brutal but practical. She does what needs to be done. Her machinelike mindset opens her thoughts to new areas of creativity. The idea of the World Wide Web started with her and one of her rare rants about the threads that connect all minds and how to telepathically tread along those thin wires. Madwoman or genius, you decide._

"I still think she's nuts."

_Well, it is a madman speaking, so my point of view is slightly tainted..._

"How far am I from the center of the maze?" I wonder as tiptoe around the crumbling remains of a decapitated skeleton strewn carelessly over the floor. "Everything around me is getting a lot older, isn't it?"

_Yeah, it's not far. Maybe ten more –_

He cuts off abruptly, a searing bolt of surprise cutting through my thoughts. I stop in my tracks, almost fearing that Jane had lashed out at Hugo for having such a rude conversation about her.

"What happened?" I ask, rubbing at my temple, wincing away the pain. Silence. "Hugo?"

_Penryn, I know this really isn't a good time, but your mother just showed up. How the fuck do I take care of this?_

"What?" Dreads sinks its icy talons into my heart. "Why? What is she doing? Don't let her in here!"

_Right, that's exactly what we need, three Youngs running wild. She's actually not all that interested in the tunnel, best I can tell. No, talking to Ogden's garden gnomes is immensely more interesting than the creepy tunnel, silly me..._

I breathe out with relief, puffing my cheeks and relaxing the hand that'd automatically strangled Pooky Bear's hilt. "Just don't let her in here. I don't want her finding Jane's experiments and conducting tests of her own."

_Don't you worry about it. Mad people tend to get along. It's why Bay and I are two peas in a pod. Left here._

I scrunch my brow as the odor of rotting flesh invades my nose, pungent and inescapable. Paige sniffs once and then moans, burying her head into my leg to muffle the scent. "God, is that fresh?" I ask, coughing the foul taste from my mouth the air brings against my tongue. "I thought the things get older as we go along!"

_That's precisely where the problem lies. Most of it is too old. Even super-duper strong angel bones don't last forever. Eventually, they need to be replaced. Jane does a very good job with keeping her halls well maintained. _

"God forbid she be an untidy housekeeper."

Onward Paige and I plunge, the stench growing more and more potent with each step we take into the heart of the den. Hugo's constant commentary of everything I happen to see keeps my mind off the horrendous sights of freshly fetched skulls, with fleshy glue still sticking to the bone and grey skin slowly rotting off. When at last we do reach the final stretch of tunnel, a single hub where many other passageways meet to converge into one great corridor, my flashlight's beam starts to flicker and shudder, as if it, too, is terrified of what lies beyond the bones.

_See, that's why you've got to bring batteries._ Hugo's voice is matter of fact. _We haven't even reached her sleeping chamber, and already, your technology is going haywire because of all the demonic activity. You still have them, right?_

After a few batteries checks and much shaking of the flashlight, we venture deeper into the maze with a relatively reliable flashlight in hand. Everything now is tense – despite our best efforts, every so often, the flashlight's beam flutters over the mass of skulls. The sounds that'd abandoned me for a long stretch of time have returned, wails of agony and dying moans, most likely originating from another torture room and another set of experiments. As if the shadows here are denser, the tunnel seems to get darker and darker, despite the light of the flashlight. Paige's quivering does little to remedy my terror.

The corridor in which we tread is somehow more menacing than the other winding tunnels – it's almost unnaturally straight, the dirt beneath my feet packed so tightly that not even dust can be kicked up. Instead of a craggy, uneven ceiling, the skulls curve into a domelike top, grinning down from above. The only flaws in Jane's are the occasional neck bones littering the ground alongside jaws and peeled feathers, complying with gravity's demands and gently falling to the dirt.

The flashlight beam pitches violently, and, in between the flashes of light, I catch sight of a large open area far down the tunnel. As the flashlight convulses, I turn to Paige.

"Stay right by me, you hear?" I insist. "Paige, honey, I'm going to have to do something that involves a very, very bad man, and some very, very bad rituals. Whatever you see and whatever you hear, you've got to promise me that you won't run away unless I say so. You've really got to listen to me, baby, and do whatever I ask you to as quickly as possible. Promise?"

Her big eyes seem on the verge of tears as they meet my gaze, a glossy polish of fear over the dark pupils. A smile spreads over her pale face, the edges of her lips pulling against the purple lines of her stitches. "Ryn-ryn," she sighs, the trust in her voice heart-melting.

"Love you, Paige." I press my lips to her smooth forehead, avoiding the raw stitching puckering the skin of her face. "Stay close."

_You're almost there, Penryn. Just a bit further. Keep that chin up._

And so I do. I keep my chin up until I reach the end of the hall, and then I let my jaw drop. Jane's sleeping chambers lie before me.

The stone walls are worn and smooth, without a crag of blemish on the grey rock. It's ovular and riddled with concaves in the stone, each of the alcoves bedded with trembling white hairs. In the very center of the room are the stains of past rituals, the faded blood marks a map for me to follow. Unlike the rest of the halls and rooms, no bones plaster the walls; however, other skeletons sleep in the chambers, mouths held open eternally with the terror of their last screams.

"Oh, my God." I ogle at the harrowing corpses, horrified by the tufts of fur clinging to the ivory bones, recognizing the slender design of the exposed skulls. "Are those…?

_Wolf pups._ Hugo's presence is grim, quashing anger. _Her own. Neither of them were over a month old._

"Jane's pups?" My voice cracks at the sight of their little wings, half-folded against their decaying sides. Between their ribs, the squirming white bodies of maggots burrow into their flesh. "…Scruffy's pups, too?"

_Oh yes, they were. Scruffy was going to be a Papa. I noticed she was pregnant with those poor things and got the entire Nephilim community excited for Scruffy's pups. The dude was excited himself. Even more than usual, I mean. I noticed one day that she wasn't plump anymore. Thought she'd had them, thought they were back in her den, squealing bald things. When we found them there with their necks snapped, Scruffy started nosing them and licking their foreheads. He couldn't understand why they wouldn't wake up. Heartbreaking. Got out of there as soon as I could. Haven't come back since. Sickening to see she hasn't even moved them._

I clap a hand over my mouth in case the nausea in my stomach may attempt to escape, and with the other hand, I position Paige's gaze away from the carcasses. "And you think she isn't crazy…? This… this is sick!"

_It put a dent in my theory. Maybe she saw them as competition. _

"Her own children?" I shake my head to dispel the thoughts barraging my calm façade. "This really is a place of tragedy, isn't it? There's an excuse for the angels, but _Scruffy's pups_…"

I find myself recalling her words: _But only a fool chooses a madwoman to bear his pups, and a fool that wolf is. _

Hugo's thoughts wrench my back to the present. _A place of tragedy… that this place is, isn't it? Perfect conditions to draw out a demon. We'd better get started. We've wasted enough time on condolences and petty observances. Now, Penryn, now we work to call the demonic sucker._

* * *

Bryon claps slowly, the sound echoing through the room like the lethargic beat of a dying heart. His lips twist into a wry smile. With every clap of his hands, the staff cradled in the crook of his arm shifts, rolling lazily up and down his bicep. As the golden noonday light falls upon feathers once so feared by none other than himself, Bryon can only muse upon how absolutely adorable the very Wrath of God looks as he struts about, grinning like a child with a new toy.

"At last!" the angel trumpets, breathing deeply and sighing heavily. "Feathers! I forgot how much I missed feathers. You poor pathetic monster, not having any wings. Must be miserable, being grounded all the time."

"Not as miserable as you'd think," Bryon chuckles, leaning back against the bookshelf he'd been rifling through. "Although if I could as for one bodily correction, I would ask for wings. Unfortunately, though, God doesn't often make house calls. My wings would be beautiful, I'd wager."

"If God made house calls, you'd end up getting those black bastards. Never trust Greeks bearing gifts." Still grinning broadly, he takes the old severed limbs in his hands, and begins to methodically break every slender bone bound together by the leathery skin. "Oh, goodbye, hooks, goodbye, bats. I can go home, can't you see that, you pitiful monster?! I can put that damned Uriel in his place and I can go home!"

Bryon bites his lip as Raphael begins to spread his snowy wings wide. "Ah, how about we don't do that?" He surges forward, rapping the edge of the staff against the wing's joint. "Remember what the Seraphim said? You can't move them for at least a day, and you can't fly for a couple."

"That's bull." Raphael rolls his eyes. "I was up and flapping around not even an hour after I got these disgraces to the air." Another bone pops, folding in his hands.

"Yes, well, you weren't exactly flying flawlessly." Bryon winces as the archangel bundles a few of the spindly bones in his hands and cracks them together, creating a sickening crunching noise. "And I saw you nearly a few days later figuring out that those scythes were retractable. Bravo on that one."

"True." Raphael sighs heavily, studying the tips of his wings, sliding the scythes in and out absentmindedly. "And I do need to do something about those scythes, don't I? I wonder what."

"That's not exactly what I meant," Bryon mumbles. Clearing his throat, he continues, "Well, Penryn asked after you while you were gone. I told her you were still in a test. Which, I suppose, it sort of was."

Raffe looks up, and drops his discarded wings. "Has she gone through with it?" There's an anxious, worried tone in his voice that both soothes Bryon's nerves and riles them back up again. "Is she alright? Has something happened?"

Bryon swivels his head from side to side, closing his eyes to better formulate a response. "Said they didn't make good time, and that she was just about to enter the den. That was an hour and a half ago. Depending on whether or not Jane was quick and whether and not she's any good at navigating mazes, she could be with Lucius, done with Lucius, or still stumbling around."

Raffe nods impatiently, eager for more news, the demonic wings all but forgotten in their oozing heap on the tablecloth. "How was she? Did she seem alright to you?"

Bryon hesitates, uncertain upon how many secrets he's willing to spill to the archangel. "Well, she seemed frightened. Said she was pretty nervous. But who wouldn't be?"

Raphael's fists clench and unclench. Bryon watches them in the corner of his eye, keeping a watch on the muscles flexing up and down the lengths of his arms as well as the concern and frustration that drives him to grind his teeth together. He almost seems like a man with a place to be caught in a place he doesn't want to be.

"Do you want to call Hugo?" Bryon fishes the phone from his pocket, extending it towards the archangel. "You might not be able to get Penryn on the line, but, from what I know of their little plan, he should know how she's doing."

Raphael hesitates. Then he snatches the phone from Bryon's hand.

* * *

I stumble backwards, hands gripping the smooth surface of the stone as best they can in a battle to keep myself upright. Though my heart splutters in my chest as I feel the power of the Devil's son's name, true and full, ripping through the chamber, the response to it is less than I'd expected – no thunder ripples through the tunnels, nor does my vision go white with the pure presence of darkness in my midst. But something I hadn't prepared for does.

The room goes cold as ice, my breath pluming before my face in a billowing silvery thread. Dread prickles at the back of my neck, sending rivulets of sweat rolling down despite the drastic change in temperature. Paige whimpers and whines, clutching me.

Perhaps she feels the same cold nothingness trickling down her spine, pooling in her stomach. Perhaps the same emotionless and wearying sensation begins to drag at her bones, as if they'd hardened into heavy stone to drag down my limbs. As if my thoughts are freezing over, I can feel my mind slowing down, though whether it's because of the demon or the fear throbbing in my heart, I'm not sure.

In the center of the demonic pentagram, focused between all the rays and angels of the stars and triangles I'd painstakingly etched in the nasty lamb's blood, is a growing mass of what seems like third dimensional shadows. It swells and froths, fanning out over the ground, the dark mist held back by the lines of blood. And, from the depths of the fog, something else takes form – I only catch it in my gaze for mere milliseconds as it bares great, hooked wings up to the ceiling before the flashlight's beam goes out, the bulb bursting with a dying shriek of shattering glass.

The loud noise serves as an audacious reminder, a yelp to yank me from the horror that'd stolen my thoughts. I scramble back to my feet as the shadowy mass begins to ebb away, the red torches in all four corners of the room illuminating a dark figure amongst the fog. Gluing my eyes to the ground, I recall Ogden's instructions.

Before the shadows flee completely, I begin to speak in as strong a voice I can manage through the tight, dry throat strangling my words. "I am Penryn Young," I announce, my cadence quavering and voice cracking. "I have come to –"

_Brrrrring! Brrrrring! Brrrrring! _

The rude noise of a cheesy telephone ringtone echoes from my pocket. I start, spooked by the noise in the overall quiet, eyes flying to my pant legs. Again, it sounds, obnoxiously ringing around the chamber like some shrill bird cry.

_Brrrrring! Brrrrring! Brrrrring! _

Hugo's lamenting voice echoes in my head. _Jesus, that's got to be embarrassing. That's why you don't take technology near demons, Penryn. Bad enough you're screwing up my phone…_

_Brrrrring! Brrrrring! Brrrrring! _

The figure in the shadows sounds like a thousand serpents twisting together, the smooth slide of scale-on-scale magnified to monstrous degrees. Arrogance chills his tone. His R's sound like icy barks.

"Aren't you going to answer that?"

I quiver at the sound of Lucius's voice as it blankets the air with the shadows of its hissing melody, but the slithering words and bizarre dances also bring on other questions, even as I hurry to fish the phone from my pocket – true, he sounds icy, but not to the extent of the rough voice from my dream. There is something distinctively more serpentine about Lucius.

My fingers fumble clumsily over the screen, affected by the ice in the air and the forlorn sensation gripping me tightly.

_Brrrrring! Brrrrring! Brrrrring! _

"It's rude to keep friends waiting." So scaly and cold…

Trembling slightly, I tap the button and hold the phone up to my ear, not even bothering to glance at who'd called at this ungodly moment.

"H-hello?" I whisper, voice shuddering with each panicked breath I take. My hand quivers so violently that the phone vibrates at my ear. "Who is th-this?"

"Penryn?" Raffe's voice flows into me, like the antidote to a poison. Warmth flares first at my cheeks with the red blush flaming there, spreading slowly through my veins. His voice, though alarmed, holds the familiarity akin to that of wrapping my arms around a beloved teddy bear.

"Raffe," I choke out, courage lifting my heart, battling off the unnatural fear gripping me.

But before he can respond, an icy burn spreads over my skin, and the phone vanishes from my hand. I gasp and snatch at it, but as my fingers brush against flesh as cold as a dead man's, I recoil with a sharp cry, cradling my hand against my chest.

"Ah, yes, the infamous Wrath of God." Lucius's chilling voice almost reminds me of a rippling slinky. "I am in the middle of an operation, little Wrath, and I do not take to interruptions kindly. If you even attempt to call again, those pretty new wings of yours will be off before you can say 'dead Daughter of Man' three times fast. I have business to attend to. Good day."

The light cast from the screen cuts into darkness, plunging the demon into the shadows from which he'd come. Quickly following the loss of light is the mechanic sound of something snapping from the depths of the shadows.

Two halves of the iPhone rattle towards opposite sides of the room, hitting the walls and spiraling off with violent speeds. Lucius does not utter one more word.

Hugo's horrified squeak at last sounds. _My phone! My phone! How could he? That's my phone!_

"That won't do, either." Milky flesh catches the red gleam of the torches, illuminating the dark purple webs of veins riddling the back of his hand as he lifts it to the sky. "Good day."

Hugo's acknowledgement of the words he'd spoken comes slightly too late. _Wait. Wait, wait, wait – _

The crisp snap of his fingers rings through the chamber.

The voice of Hugo in my mind sounds no more. Though I wait for Hugo to respond with jeering, scornful critiques on Lucius's performance, no such critiques arrive. Hugo has left me, and the plan is no more.

"You were saying, Penryn Young?" Lucius purrs from the depths. "What have you come to do, you and your little friend, not to mention the one who doesn't play fair?"

I frown, placing my body between Paige and Lucius, keeping my gaze at the figure's feet. Paige, she could be the little friend to which he'd referred, but the one who doesn't play fair…?

_He was speaking of me._ Though lacking the deep, warm tones of Raffe's voice, Ogden's high, flowing voice has the same effect, banishing Lucius's frigid presence with its melodic cascade of notes.

I risk a fleeting glance towards Lucius, my gaze skating up the crisp white suit cladding his slim build, pausing at the crimson tie gleaming in the torchlight.

"Why can't you get rid of him, too?" I murmur, still grappling for confidence. "If you can snap your fingers and get rid of Hugo, why can't you do the same for Ogden?"

"Interesting story." His brutal voice grows cool and suppressed, as if he's hiding anger beneath the serpentine hisses of his words. "You see, little Young, Ogden is slightly older than I am, and slightly more experienced in such fields. He should be able to hold his tongue, though, considering he has none."

_I will stay with you. _Ogden's vow restores some of my courage, causing me to wrap my hand tighter around Paige's, rubbing my thumb over the back of her palm.

"Yes, yes." Lucius draws attention back to him as he waves one spindly-fingered hand dismissively, as if we hold no interest for him. "Such noble actions. And I'm ever so certain you'll be able to keep all your promises. So." I glimpse the vague notion of the demon lifting his head, straightening his cuffs, and squaring his shoulders. "Shall we make a deal, little Young?"

* * *

**Raffe is obviously freaking out. Most likely Bryon too. What with a foreboding message like that. **

**I'm so excited to finally get around to Lucius's character. I've tried to place him so many different ways (playboy, prankster, rich daddy's boy, problem child, pervert) but none of them seemed to work. True, I originally imagined him having a sense of humor and I scratched that – I feel it would undermine his position as an antagonist – but I think that I like him all the same. **

**It's perfectly alright if you don't share in my glee. He's most likely not even that interesting a character. **

**POLL: Does anyone have any ideas as to what sort of deal Lucius may attempt to pitch? Though Bryon is rather indifferent on Paige's appearance, Penryn wants her fixed badly, and that can become a weakness. **

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	31. Chapter Thirty

**Chapter Thirty**

_Tell him what you want._ Ogden's gentle guidance reins in the stampeding pound of my pulse. _You are the one that names your end of the bargain. It is how it has always been._

"Listen to the old man." There is no emotion in his voice, nothing but the slightest cadence of boredom. "I have a tight schedule. My father might come and find me if I don't attend our little meeting on time, and, believe me, neither of us want that…"

I swallow hard. "My sister was captured by angels. They experimented on her – changed her. She's not like herself. I want you to heal her. Restore her to the way she was."

_Specific. Be very specific._

I add things onto the end, making the details clearer. "Leave her legs intact; she can do without her disability. I want you to remove the changes the angels made upon her. Leave her memories. Take away her stitches and all things nasty. Don't make any changes on her personality. Bring my Paige back."

My requests are initially met with silence. But when Lucius's voice rings again from the darkness, it's slippery, flavored with spices of deceit and trickery. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

"Allow me to clarify the details of your end of the deal." In the corner of my eye, I catch him stepping forward, leaning down to inspect Paige from afar. "You desire me to remove the changes the angels have wrought. You wish for me to remove all her scars, all the things that you flinch at every time you open your eyes." Paige winces at that. "You want me to remove her implanted thoughts, the ones she thinks only because the angels programmed her to think them." Paige sulks back. "You wish for me to _rip_ those false fangs from her mouth, and to fix all those nasty dentistry issues." Lucius's head cocks. "Not only that, but you want me to leave the positive changes the angels made – but of course, who would want a little disabled weakling? Yes, you want me to leave her with her legs working, and those muscles still pumping. Nothing to weigh you down or drag at the herd, not even a beloved sister."

I swallow, noticing how Paige's previously tight grip around my calves lessen, noticing how she seems to not only hide from Lucius but also from me. But Hugo had drilled something into my head – the more I talked with him, the more chances Lucius would have to corrupt me. Even though my heart aches, I cannot openly refute his words. I can only confirm them.

"That's right." I ignore Paige's hurt start of surprise. "Do you understand? Anything else you'd like to clarify?"

"No, that's all I need to know. Many thanks." Against my own will, I find myself glancing towards Lucius's face long enough to glimpse an oozing black snake tongue flicking over his lips between words. But before I can look away, he fades into smoke, a great cloud of rippling black fog.

"Hello, little girl. Come closer." I nearly jump out of my skin as Lucius appears beside me, kneeling before Paige.

"No!" Pooky Bear slides from her scabbard, blazing in the air between us. I hold it in front of his face, placing myself in front of Paige, shouting, "Get away from her! I will use this and carve your hellish face into a tic-tac-toe board!"

Lucius tilts his head up towards me, a swift reminder for me to angle my gaze downwards. "What a pretty little prize," he purrs. Long, frigid fingers wrap around my own, blanketing my hand on Pooky Bear's hilt. "May I?"

Fueled by both of our rage, I flick Pooky Bear from Lucius's grasp, slicing a long gash into his suit's sleeve, spilling midnight black blood over the white fabric.

The noise that Lucius makes reminds me strongly of a nest of snakes hissing in unison. Disappearing in a puff of black smoke, he appears at the back of the room, directly in front of the torch. Silhouetted against the fire, he lifts his arm, inspecting the wound.

"Now, why'd you have to go and do that?" Lucius sighs, shaking his head of fine yellowish white locks. "This is good silk, little Young. Do you have no appreciation for such things?" He lifts his opposite hand and snaps his fingers, and before my eyes, the suit mends seamlessly.

"Sorry, but this sword isn't part of the auction." I brace myself over Paige. "She does like the taste of your blood, though."

Something new lines Lucius's slender build as slowly turns towards me, haloed by the light. "Is 'she' Raphael's sword?" He strolls leisurely forward, hands folded behind his back. "It is, isn't it? Hmm. How wonderful. The all-powerful Wrath of God as weak as he has ever been. I almost feel sorry for the poor bastard."

"What?" I grit my teeth. "What are you babbling about?"

"Is it not obvious to you?" Lucius chuckles, possibly the most terrifying display of his slithering tones yet. "The labors of Raphael? Delightful. Oh, how you torture him, Penryn." He releases a thrumming cackle, tossing his head up. "The poor, poor archangel. You truly don't see it, either!"

"Shut up," I growl, remembering my vow to keep Lucius as quiet as possible.

"Caught in a storm of his own creation," Lucius laments, ignoring me entirely, pacing deliberately from one end of the room to the other. "Oh, how he lusts for you, little Young – how he yearns he could hold you in his arms, how he wishes he did not feel so emotionally attached to the funny little monkey! He is Wrath of God, after all, as he so blatantly thunders every time he enters a room. His people are in unrest, scattered and wounded, in need of a light to guide the way, and he knows that – they need a leader, a strong one, to guide them from the darkness and away from the ploys of the angel so long caught in the shadow of Raphael's glory. They need a leader that isn't tempted by the fire he's supposed to despise to show them the way back home."

"I told you to shut up!" I snap, beginning to quiver.

"He sees the way you suffer, sees the way you observe your people struggling to survive and thinks of how his own did this to them. How, if they ever get the chance, they'll do it to you. And so he tells himself it's for your own good that he pushes you away – that if he stays strong, if he resists the fires of hell that sweep the floor whenever you walk towards him, he can win the prize of Messenger and save you from his brethren. He believes that" – Lucius flexes his wings irately – "if he can keep you alive and keep his distance long enough, he'll ultimately give you everything he could possibly give and keep his warrior status squeaky clean. But can he, Penryn? Can he?"

"Shut up!" I shout at him, stomach roiling. I lift Pooky Bear's blade, allowing her to glint with torchlight like a mirror. "I don't appreciate you changing the subject when we're on business!"

"I DON'T APPRECIATE YOU WAVING WRATH OF GOD'S SWORD IN MY FACE AS I STUDY YOUR SISTER!" Lucius bellows, the ice in his voice blasting about the hissing. "WOULD YOU PREFER ME HAVING AN OVERPRICED DEAL? WOULD YOU PREFER ME TO MISJUDGE THE SEVERITY OF YOUR SISTER'S CALAMITIES?"

I shrink back, holding out Raphael's sword in a frail attempt to place a barrier between me and the smoldering demon. Every muscle in Lucius's body is tense, his wings folding and unfolding in agitation.

"If you would kindly LET ME EVALUATE YOUR SISTER so I can DO MY JOB without CAUSING A BIG RUCKUS, I wouldn't have to pull your petty romantic situation into the light. Now, little girl, come forward."

Lucius kneels without hesitation, his hooked wings folding by his sides, ready for Paige to scurry forward.

_Penryn. _Ogden's voice is soft. _He needs to analyze her. I don't like it any more than you do, but it must be done. _

"Okay." I sigh, trying to calm my nerves as much as possible. "Okay. Paige, baby?" I fall to my knees, sheathing Pooky Bear much to her dismay. "Baby, now's one of those times when you have to follow what I say, exactly. I need you to walk up to the bad man and stay there until I tell you to come back. Close your eyes. Don't open them until I hold you in my arms and tell you that all's safe. If he lays a hand on you, scream and come running back. Can you do that? Please?"

Paige tugs at my shirt, her hands clenching the fabric tightly. "Ryn-ryn," she practically sobs, her eyes wide with fear.

"I know, baby." I clutch her against my chest, blinking bothersome tears from my own eyes. "I know. It's scary. I'm scared. I need you to stay brave for me, okay? Hey, after this, we're going to meet up with Bryon and Sariel, okay? And for once, we're going to just chill out." I overlook the fact that lies are all I speak. "For once, we're not going to worry about demons or angels or anything in between. For a little while at least, we're just going to relax. Alright? But first, we need to do this."

Paige hesitates, a tremble shaking her little body. But she nods against me, and I can feel her determination stiffening her bones and injecting rigid tension into her muscles.

My hand rests on the hilt of Pooky Bear as Paige approaches the demon, quivering with each step, but the precaution is unnecessary. Lucius seems to look Paige over before ordering her to turn around. She does as he says, and Lucius nods almost immediately afterwards.

"Paige." My voice is soft. "Come on back."

She wheels around and practically sprints back into my arms. I stroke her hair from her face and whisper, "It's okay, baby, you can open your eyes, all is good."

"Touching." Lucius is standing once more, straightening his neat white suit back to its precise beauty. "I have my offer, little Young, if you are ready to hear it."

"Right." Patting Paige awkwardly on the head, I stand once more, bracing my hand on Pooky Bear's hilt to seek comfort more than protection. "Name your price."

"Free." Lucius spreads his slender hands in an honest gesture. "This would hurt my plan, anyway."

"Free?" I repeat incredulously, starting with surprise. "What's the catch?"

"None. A dysfunctional wife is hardly a good one. And since you are restoring little Paige here into a near perfect state… well, it serves me in the long run."

"Wife?" Dread clutches my stomach, as frigid as his voice and as strong as the fear pulsing through my body with each pound of my heart. "Did you say wife?"

"Yes, Penryn, it so happens I did." Lucius taps his wrist, as if motioning towards the time on an invisible watch. "Remember, my daddy dearest doesn't particularly like it when I'm late to appointments, so do try to hurry, or the deal's off."

"No." I move towards him for a change, willing to set the demon off balance. "No, you're not going anywhere. Not until you tell me what the hell you meant by that. Why did you just call Paige your wife?"

"Don't be so innocent." Lucius laughs chillingly, throwing back his head, but cuts off swiftly. Though I don't meet his gaze, I can feel its power slowly circling over my body, like a vulture admiring a particularly appetizing carcass.

"Do you truly not know?" Lucius chuckles, seemingly delighted. "Did you think that Paige was of any use to me as a little ragdoll? Did you think that I would prefer her as an ugly creature lined with stitches? What purpose would she serve?"

"Paige won't be serving any purpose, at least not for you," I defy, my fear increasing in leaps and bounds. There is something distinctively feral in the way that Lucius walks now, prowling closer like a lithe cat stalking through a sea of grass.

"Did you think your mother got a freebee when she bargained for your father's life?" Lucius cocks his head, the white gleam of his teeth visible even in the low light. "Did you think that demon haunting her sleep was after _her_?"

"Stay back," I warn, half-tugging Pooky Bear from her sheath. "I will use her!"

"No, you won't, you want answers, same as any normal person would." Lucius waves a hand to his right, still beaming in the darkness, and the torch in that corner of the room goes dark, bathing him in more shadows. "Maybe you thought I sought your mother's sanity as I struck up a bargain. No, I feed on insanity, I breathe it like you breathe your precious oxygen, but I don't ever bargain for it. It's merely a useful byproduct. Oh, no, little Young, to save your father, your mother traded…" Lucius fades into mist before my eyes. Two icy cold fingers wrap around my neck from behind, the frigid pads lying over my hammering pulse point. "You."

I shriek and whip Pooky Bear around, only to find darkness. Lucius's algid laugh echoes through the chamber, snuffing out the flames of the torches one by one.

"Penryn, you do delight me. Surely it must all be coming together now? Your father's deaths? Your sister's disability? Your mother's insanity? 'The devil's bride' is what she branded you… are you still too stupid to connect the dots?"

"No," I breathe, backing up against the wall, casting one hand backwards to steady myself against the cool stone. "No. No way."

"In trade for your father, your mother gave me the lives of all her female daughters as my eternal servants," Lucius taunts, his grin evident in his hissing tone. "Of course, in the beginning, all my bets were on you – clever, strong-willed, and so beautiful."

A cold hand caresses my collar bone, but Pooky Bear hits flesh and slices into it, and it retracts. Lucius continues without a change in manner. "That all changed, of course, when you learned to defend yourself. You became low-value meat. Even in her current state, I would choose your sister over you. And for that reason, she became my number one choice."

Lucius sighs, the sound of it vaguely on the other side of the room. "She would've been a fine one, too – so gentle and so kind. They always are fun. But your filthy mother made her spoiled meat as well, mangling her legs so that I would never choose her, either. Much like the bitch did with her own pups." I hear a thunk that sounds suspiciously like the thickening crunch of a boot's toe against bones. "Except she went ahead and killed them. Completely unaware that their souls are still mine. Drives her even battier."

"Wait." I hold up a hand to pause his monologue, suppressing anger. "You're saying that Mom did _that_ to Paige's legs because… because she didn't want you getting to her? You're the reason Paige was disabled in the first place?"

Lucius mumbles something unintelligibly before answering. "Damn your mother. I'd kept myself constantly around the house just to keep a steady supply of lunatic behaviors flowing, but only to her eyes. Playing with the building blocks alongside her little infant, the ghost in the mirror stroking her daughter's hair – all in good fun. And most of the time, I got a heavy flow of insane thoughts and mindsets, but your father kept her from tipping to the extents I'd have liked her to. Had to be stopped, he did."

"Wait, what?"

A laugh of genuine amusement echoes around. "Monkeys are so dense. The first time, I didn't have all too much of a motive, I'll admit – I needed a new donor, a new bitch to look me in the eyes. So I killed your mother's lover and offered to save him. My plan worked."

"You didn't kill my father the first time." I swallow my anger, though traces can still be detected in my strained voice. "It was a hellhound. Both times it was a hellhound."

"Monkeys are so dense." Lucius chuckles hauntingly, gruff barks of laughter echoing eerily through the room. "So he lived on, but, eventually, I needed him dead again, for reasons we have already discussed. I lured him out into my willow trees with false promises of a way to stake me through the heart, a way to end all of his family's suffering without the assistance of his glorious older brother. And he came. The Nephilim King tried to help, beat up most of the monsters I'd sent upon him. He couldn't do a thing about me, though."

"My father was killed by a hellhound," I persist stubbornly, glaring at the darkness, hoping I don't meet the gleam of eyes somewhere in the shadows. "Nothing more, nothing less!"

"What was it your uncle said?" Lucius hums, his voice gradually drawing closer. "Ah, yes, I remember."

The crisp snap of fingers pops in the air.

And a whisper of Bryon's voice echoes through the halls, soft and eerie, but exactly as I recall it from our night bent over studying paintings in the Chaza. Paige's arms around my leg feel like they're cutting off all circulation.

_"Then the most awful eyes in all of hell burned to life behind him, and the omega of the pack pounced before I could do anything."_

"'The most awful eyes in all of hell'… I don't even know how to react to that flattery!" Lucius purrs. "It was quite a shame the Nephilim King didn't meet my gaze fully – too absorbed in the death of your father. Imagine the power he has stored in places he doesn't even realize! Oh, but child, I killed your father." Malevolent emotions thicken his slithering tones. "Do you want to know how?"

"No," I breathe. "No."

Two sets of cold fingers start at the base of my nape, the icy temperature of the flesh causing my muscles to lock in panic. Leaving to frozen paths in their wake, they slowly trail from the bristles of hair at the back of my neck down to weaker skin.

"I took his neck in my jaws," Lucius whispers, his lips stirring the hair near my ears with their quiet, hissing tones. "I took it just like this" – his fingers curl in the soft hollow beneath my jaw, jagged nails leaving claw marks behind them – "and I felt his pulse hammering and his blood pouring through his veins, hot and wet and red, and _I bit him_."

His fingernails pierce into my skin, the fierce pressure he forces into them causing me to squeak with pain. Other nails sink into my throat at other soft places along my neck, each causing more pain than the last. I shiver wildly.

_No more._

It isn't Ogden that'd whispered that into my mind, of that I'm sure – too gravelly, too deep. But before I can ponder longer on the subject, the torches flare with red fire.

In the same instant, they all alight with crimson plumes of flames, belching obnoxiously. Lucius stiffens, then vanishes entirely from me, not reappearing until the red gleam of the torches have faded back into their usual dim glows.

"How very strange," Lucius murmurs, appearing beside one of them, inspecting the base. "I do suspect foul play…"

"Why were you telling me this?" I whisper, a sudden strike of knowledge buffeting aside all other thoughts. "You were provoking me, weren't you? Trying to get me to strike a bad deal?"

Lucius's attention is quickly drawn back to me. "Was it you? No. Old friend, you're nowhere near talented enough. Who was it?"

"I am talking!" I announce, stamping my foot. Lucius halts in his little investigation. If I had to use a word to sum up what he might be feeling at the moment, I daresay it would be "annoyed". Stiffening irritably and turning on heel to face my again, draped in shadows like a king draped in regal robes, Lucius focuses.

"And I was not listening. I am now, though. What is it that you have to say?"

"I want to add something more onto our bargain," I inform him, keeping my tone calm as possible. "Can we arrange that without changing the information and dealings already set down?"

I see Lucius straighten his tie in my periphery, murmuring, "I'm _candidly_ listening now."

"I want you to let Paige out of my mother's deal." I risk a glance up towards the upper half of his body, trying to discern his body language as best I can. "Will that be possible?"

Lucius sighs. "Allow me a second to think of what my offer will be, and yes, we can arrange such dealings. But you're making this tough on yourself, little Young, and a light load will now become much heavier."

"Anything for Paige," I vow, closing my hand around hers. "Don't take forever. You've got a meeting with your dad, and, trust me, neither of us want him coming to find you."

_Be careful what you say._ This time, it's most definitely Ogden, cautioning me against speaking any further. _Allowing him to provoke you usually ends in a sour deal. However, provoking him in turn also never ends up halcyon. _

"Lucky for you, little Young, I know what I want from you." Lucius leans against the far wall, the shadows cast by the torchlight dancing over his body in hypnotic flickers, his wings extended like props on a Broadway play.

"Oh?" I question, reluctant to hear his options and finalize some sort of deal. "What is it?"

"Two option, actually." He takes a deck of cards in his suit jacket, and begins rifling through them, the slap of paper against paper grating on my nerves. "Your first choice is the same as your mother's. If you need specifics, I shall provide."

"No." I shake my head firmly. "No way in hell."

"That option, then, is lost to you forever," Lucius amends, and, though his face is shielded by the shadows he dwells in, I get the sense that he's grinning. "Awful quick to dash it out, weren't you? Your last option is slightly more heartfelt. Anything that your beloved Raphael does to you, I shall also be able to do to you."

I blink, a cold stone settling in my stomach. "Clarification, please?"

"If Raphael holds your hand" – though I clearly see him on the opposite side of the cavern, I can feel the ghosts of frigid fingers twining around my own – "I, too, can hold your hand if I choose. If Raphael locks his lips to yours" – foul, frosty breath pours over my face, as if someone is hovering just before it – "I, too, can kiss you if I choose. If things between you and Raphael become even more intimate than that..." Lucius laughs, shuffling his deck of cards. "I believe you get the idea. Personally, I think you're getting a no-brainer."

"What?" I squeak. "Why would you think that?"

Lucius's head cocks. "We have already discussed this, little Young, and I do not fancy having to repeat myself. Raphael keeps his distance from you because, as an archangel, he has to think of his people and yours. And, since he truly cares for you, he will keep his distance to keep me away and focus on getting the angelic bastards off the earth. With all honesty, you and I both benefit with the loss of the angels. And if he does slip up –" Lucius shrugs. "It's rather unfortunate for you, I suppose, but not for me."

_Penryn._ Ogden's voice is hesitant, reluctant. _It's a better deal than what I got._

"How do you benefit from the loss of the angels?" I interrogate, ignoring Ogden, attempting to focus my attention on something other than the problem at hand.

Lucius sighs, irritated. "Is that really something you must know? Uriel is stirring up trouble, little Young. Blaming demons and Fallen angels for his own mischief. If it comes to war, I'm in trouble. People might've neglected to mention that I'm the son of Satan – it makes them nervous. But, as you might imagine, the prince of Hell is one of the first you'd like to assassinate, correct? I don't want a Castiel on my ass."

"If you're the son of Satan, does that make you the anti –"

"I don't want to stall any longer. As you point out, daddy dearest wouldn't be a fun houseguest."

I mull over it, gnawing hard enough on my lower lip to draw blood. My stomach is tight, as if it's being tied into knots. The trickery and treachery forming the sappy glue between words isn't wholly masked by his scathing logic and brumal tones, nor is the boredom seeping into his tones fully concealing the exigent interest, the anxiousness to see my response, but the dilemma he had laid at my feet and told me to solve carries a foreboding future either way I choose to answer its riddle.

"I'll take the deal if you leave out –" I swallow, and start again. "Consider yourself in business so long as the hand-holding with Raffe and other things about on the same spectrum aren't something. Only kissing or other sexual stuff like that."

Lucius is quiet, then he nods in indifferent agreement. "I accept those terms. I accept our deal and all of our terms. But do you? Will you take up my offer?"

_This is your last chance to negate any transaction._ Ogden's warning is perhaps the first firm thing he's said. _I believe it's a good deal, but you're the one making the decision. _

I hesitate for a second longer.

And then I give the son of the Devil my answer.

The white of his teeth spreading over his face maps the stretch of his lewd grin from ear to ear. Lucius lifts one hand to the ceiling and snaps his fingers. "Thank you for doing business,, little Young. Good day."

* * *

"Penryn!" Hugo cheers, grinning over the screen of his laptop, straightening from his slack lounge against the trunk of a tree. "Penryn, be a dear and, uh, distract your mother." He casts a nervous glance towards where

"Hey, Mom." I smile weakly at her, ignoring the way she's cradling a wooden gnome on her lap, then pat Paige's shoulders. "Look, Mom. Paige is back. She's okay now."

Mom's eyes grow wide, two black, watery disks. "No!" she hisses, throwing down the gnome so that he pointy hat sinks into the ground. "No! Her legs were her shield! Penryn, what have you done?"

Hugo and Ogden had halted their approaches immediately, instead choosing to spectate the meeting from a safe distance. If he had it his way, Scruffy would be all over me, but Hugo pins him against the ground, growling back at his wolf playfully.

"Don't worry, Mom," I croon, inching forward, attempting to appear as nonthreatening as possible. "I fixed it. I know – I know what you did to protect Dad, and it's okay. I made sure that _he_ wouldn't hurt Paige."

My mother blinks, as if not quite comprehending my words. She tilts her head like an animal bewildered by what it sees, lower lip trembling, eyes glassy with tears.

"It's okay, Mom," I whisper, swallowing down the lump of fear lodged in my throat. "I understand now. About the demons and about Dad. About all of it. I freed Paige from your deal. She's free now, Mom. He can't get her. I freed her. Do you understand?"

Mom's head cocks even further. Confusion swims in her gaze. "What about you? Didn't you free yourself?"

* * *

**We're asking real questions here, aren't we.**

**I'd like to tell you a short story. **

**_The author moaned, refreshing their screen as often as the thought crossed their mind, which was, to say, very often. Their tired baggy eyes focused on the properties before them – fifty views beneath 10,000, three reviews short of three hundred. Blinking, the author futilely refreshed again, in hopes that at last, the lost reviewers would return. "Three more…," the author whispered. "Three more…"_**

**POLL: Thoughts on Lucius and Penryn's deal?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	32. Chapter Thirty-One

**Chapter Thirty One**

"Belief," Metatron muses, her silver-framed spectacles balanced on the crook of her long nose, "is such a funny little thing."

Over the corner of her dusty book, Metatron glimpses Audiat, the only other she-angel in the library, raise her head curiously from the rack of books she'd been so religiously studying.

"Why would you think that?" Audiat wonders, her head tilting to one side. "I rather like belief. In fact, belief is often an amazing thing."

"Belief in God, I mean," Metatron elucidates abasively, tapping a single finger onto the page. "Such a pathetic mindset. That we all belong to a greater scheme – we are all just little beings in the web of things, and there is no spider weaving it together. We must simply hold on as tight as we can and pray not to fall into oblivion."

"That's a very pessimistic way of thinking," chides Audiat, arching one white eyebrow. "My belief gives me strength. I believe that we do serve a higher purpose. Through God, I believe that every goal can be achieved, every boundary crossed, and every restraint broken."

* * *

The far off rustle of leaves and the distant echo of laughter is captured dimly in his ears. Bryon raises a hand calmly, but Raphael continues to walk forward with his warrior's prowl, rustling the leaves as he does so. Annoyance thickens the sound of his throat clearing and irritation blazes in his eyes as he glares reprimandingly at the angel.

Raphael, too, falls silent, cocking his head to better hear the sound of three people and the rustle of four gentle paws against the leaves far in the distance. His eyes widen, and his wings flex excitedly.

Though he attempts to straighten his face and stiffen his expression into indifference, the gleam of enthusiasm and glee manages to escape through Raphael's navy blue eyes. "That's them, isn't it? They're just over the ridge."

Bryon leans on his staff, his fingers tracing a coarse knoll near the top of the wood, smiling to himself. "Mmhmmm. On a completely unrelated topic, your wings should be just about ready for flight now. No need to drag me along…"

A particularly alluring wind whispers through the trees, its fragrant breeze ruffling through Raphael's stagnant feathers and whipping the cloak around Bryon's legs.

The angel doesn't waste the breath to usher a farewell, the thought of flight bringing on a storm of lust in his gaze.

Bryon flicks his fingers in a lazy salute to the rapidly rising silhouette of a fallen star joining its place in the heavens once more. He watches the speck until it disappears over the horizon – and, as it does, unease squirms in his stomach like a slippery eel. His smile fades from his face, replaced by a bleak frown.

Bryon shakes his head, attempting to dispel the feeling that he'd made a grievous mistake.

* * *

"See?" I whisper, my lips at Paige's ear. "It's fun, being on top of Scruffy."

Hesitantly, Paige sifts her fingers through Scruffy's coarse fur, stroking his neck as he plods along with a great slavering grin. There is caution in her aura, a caution not present in her earlier days alongside the wolf, but the caution quickly deteriorates. Gradually, the corners of her lips spread further and further apart until her smile mirrors his own.

"It's fun!" she exclaims, all fears of riding the tall wolf long forgotten. "He walks a bit like a horse. Except his butt shakes more."

"Told you he wouldn't hurt you," Hugo comments from the ground, obviously still miffed at being pushed from the back of his wolf in order to allow Paige and I's ascent. At the sound of his master's voice, Scruffy affably sniffs up Hugo's neck until the boy is laughing. Enthused by the reaction, Scruffy yips happily, head bobbing up and down excitedly as Hugo wanders from his reach.

"She wasn't afraid of him hurting her," I scold, narrowing my eyes scathingly. "She was the one of us that first accepted Scruffy, remember? You threw him his stick, baby girl. Seriously freaked Raffe out, you did. Remember that?"

"Yeah." She nods, leaning back against my chest, her hair tickling my throat. "Yeah, I'm not afraid of Scruffy. I just don't like being high up. The saddle makes it better."

"Sure you're not scared?" Hugo verifies hopefully.

"It isn't too high," Paige admits, peering nervously over Scruffy's shoulder at the ground that swirls with each of his long strides. Her fingers tightening around the bushels of Scruffy's mane she'd gathered, Paige adds, "But I'm glad you're here, Penryn. He's very rocky, even with the saddle."

"Good Penryn, bad Penryn…," my mother babbles aloofly from the fringes of our group, her large black eyes darting wildly about. "Choose a side… blue or red… here he comes… the challenger… blue… but red… blue…"

An awkward silence follows that rather bewildering rant. My mother wraps her arms around Ogden's torso and begins whimpering. Petrified, Ogden glances my direction and mouths: "Help me."

"Amen," Hugo agrees solemnly, nodding his head in grave solace to her. "Preach it, girl."

"You shouldn't mock her," I scold, biting my lip to avoid snickering, focusing on the back of Paige's head, frowning at the mess of hair, wondering how I should fix it. "It's really bad for –"

A terrified shriek escapes my lips as a strong pair of arms wrap around me from above, the smooth coil of muscles sliding around my torso. The breath is knocked from my lungs as a pair of snowy white wings sweep around me, closing like the lid of a box around Scruffy. And, with the force generated by the mighty downwards flap, I sail upwards with a nauseating lurch at my stomach.

Initially, I do not comprehend the abduction so abruptly interrupting my conversation, nor do I recognize the notch carved into the otherwise perfect cascade of elegant white feathers. I writhe and kick and scream through raspy lungs. But when those arms gently swivel me midair despite all my struggles, when they tenderly clutch me closer to a familiar drumbeat pounding in a familiar chest, I freeze, and at last realize who I have been captured by.

"Raffe?" I whisper, eyes going wide, head craning up from the nest he'd created for me.

A flash of mirthful blue meets my gaze for half a second before focusing once more on the path he takes through the skies. His white-toothed grin grows broader, as if his name had sparked up another wave of pleasure. Thunderous and reminding me of melted butter, Raffe laughs, a sound of pure and innocent happiness.

For a moment, I take a second to drink in the sight of him as he is – rock-hard muscles bound in a caramel hide glowing with sweat, gorgeous face spread in a halcyon grin and eyes lit up like fallen stars, snow white feathers cradling the air.

The only thing missing from this angelic paragon is the sword swinging at my hip.

"Penryn!" he bellows, my name beautiful on his lips. "Oh, Penryn!"

I laugh too as we soar higher, the world a spin of emerald green and sky blue around us. Wrapping my arms around Raffe's neck to grip him better, I whisper for only him to hear, "Raffe…" – I spit hair from my mouth, forcing it to return to the whirlwind around my face – "your wings are beautiful."

He chuckles heartily, the sound reverberating beneath my ear and sending a shiver down my spine. Abruptly leveling out and gliding horizontal to the ground, Raffe seems to trophy his wings, to display them proudly to me – and, shimmering in the bold sunlight, they are beautiful, highlighted with gold and shimmery like satin.

"They are," he murmurs giddily, "aren't they?"

My own happiness speeds the beat of my heart, sending it pounding furiously in my chest. Delight buoys my mood. Raffe's glee only adds to my cheer, as it somehow sheds the angel in an adorable light – the way he grins at his wings, the way he proudly splays them for all to see, his wild abduction of myself with the only reason being those stunning white feathers.

"Raffe, they're magnificent," I whisper, voice jarring with a slight spurn of alarm as he soars upwards further. The ground swirls dizzingly beneath us, traveling into the embrace of the turquoise sky. The moment I recover my breath in the thin air, Raffe's hands squeeze me tighter against him. His heartbeat rumbles through me.

"Say my name, Penryn," Raffe orders huskily, lips brushing my hair. "Say it."

"Raffe." My heart jumps with joy as he does a quick spiral midair, and my breath catches. "Raffe. Oh, Raffe…"

"Not that." Raffe laughs again at my nervous intake of air as he cuts upwards, but lowers his head back to mine. "My name. My real name. Not that nickname. Not" – his voice thickens with dislike – "_Raffe_."

Once more, I shiver, tightening my grip around his neck to lessen the pull of the winds around us. Craning upwards as much as the bitter cold swirl of gales will allow, I whisper into his ear, "Raphael. Your name is Raphael."

The moment the words escape my mouth, a cold hand grasps my heart, strangling its euphoric beats, and an awful sticky warmth saps up my stomach. As if those words are some primal command to cower, I do so, following the call of the prey animal, shriveling up, retracting from Raffe's – _Raphael's_ – warmth.

_Thud. _

The beat of my heart.

_Thud. _

The beat of his.

The sound of my shallow gasping at the thin air drowns both sounds out.

Raffe continues, still caught in the stupor of his happiness. "Raphael!" he thunders, voice like a toll of church bells. I shrink against him more, squeaking softly as he tears upwards, wings spread. "I am Raphael! The Great Archangel! The Wrath of God!"

I attempt to ignore the shivers causing me to tremble violently in his embrace. "Don't get egotistic," I scold through chattering teeth.

For the first time, Raffe seems to notice my trembling, notice the way that, even as the mirth is replaced with concern, I avoid his gaze, the way my arms grip his neck frailly, as if more terrified by him than the threat of plummeting hundreds of feet through the air.

"Penryn?" Raffe inquires, hovering abruptly. "Penryn? What's wrong?"

I tilt my head up after reassuring myself that no tears blur my gaze, meeting the burn of blue eyes. "Raffe," I whisper, voice quaking, praying that somehow, he derives my meaning, hoping that he can repress his glee and calm himself for a few seconds, instead listening to the story I have to tell about Lucius and the deal I made. My pent-up fear and all the nervousness I'd crushed on this trip for the good of Paige and my mother begins to flow.

But he does not derive my meaning.

Not at all.

"Raphael," he whispers, his pupils blowing wide as he ducks down to press his lips to mine.

For half a second, I allow myself to relish in the sweet union, to enjoy the sensation of his lips moving against mine.

But reality sets in, and I find myself faced with the horror of what I have been confronted with.

Frantically, I unwind my hands from Raffe's neck and pound them against his chest. Raffe cuts off with a wheeze, gulping down air to replace what I forced out of his lungs. In his moment of surprise, his grip around me falters, and I fall a few inches in the air. The sense of dropping turns my stomach to lead.

Terror clutches my stomach at the thought of the long plummet to the ground as he grapples to get a better hold of me, the chilling fear making my hands fist his shirt and pull myself back against him. Raffe takes this as incentive to continue.

Fear throbs in my veins with each pound of my heart. I cannot physically resist him without running the risk of free-falling, but I can't talk, either, around the passionate kiss I share with him, so I merely become unresponsive – I still myself in his arms aside from the terrified quaking, and the little headway he makes in my mouth is done without my consent.

Raffe gets the hint within seconds of his lips touching mine.

Recoiling, he meets my gaze, those blue eyes so confused and lost, looking for an explanation. His eyes widen and search my face, as if noticing the panicked expression I wear. Looking me up and down, he only seems to get more and more distressed.

"What's wrong, Penryn?" he murmurs urgently, cupping my body to his. The desperate concern gleaming in his gaze is only sweetened by the tenderness he holds me with, the way his glorious wings seem to cradle around me, even midair.

"L-Lucius," I stammer, lower lip trembling.

"Lucius?" Raffe repeats, exigently searching elaboration. He probably would've questioned further if it hadn't been for the roar.

It echoes through the valley like the colossal bellow of a baleful lion, powerful and incredibly pissed. Raffe's flight quavers, his muscles tightening around me – as if he recognizes the roar, he lifts his head, eyes expertly weaving over the terrain until they find what they're searching for so religiously.

"What does he want?" Raffe murmurs, sounding annoyed.

As the roar comes again, this time louder, throatier, Raffe swiftly decides it's better not to delay and dives. We've descended together before – not quite this fast, but it's still the same. I knit myself closer to him, seeking warmth in the torrents of frigid air yanking at my face and snarling my hair into knots.

The moment Raffe's feet touch the ground, I throw myself away from him, landing on my butt. Ogling up at his wings as they fold gracefully against his back, I avoid the raw betrayed misunderstanding harbored in his eyes as I scramble backwards, fleeing him as if the Devil himself were before me.

Guttural and wild, a snarl sounds from the edges of the clearing Raffe had set down in – I can't see all too much of the creature that'd sounded it, only a pair of slitted bronze eyes darting to and fro, only can hear the heavy thud of inhuman feet pacing back and forth.

"Come on out, dammit!" Raffe barks, his betrayal hardening into ire. With one last scalding glare in my direction, he turns his gaze to Bryon's restless pacing. "What do you want? What is it this time?"

The creature that follows Raffe's instructions, stepping into the light, isn't what I'd expected. A mane starts at the ruff of his hair and stretches down his nape and assumedly a length down his back. His build is hunched and his arms contorted, as if they'd been twisted into unnatural positions. His eyebrows harden and thicken into horns, wrapping around his skull to protrude from the hair over his ears. Bryon's face is gnarled, beastlike. He no longer maintains the appearance of humanity.

"Step back, Raphael," Bryon growls in a low and dangerous voice.

Raffe's eyes blaze defiantly. "Why should I –"

"_Step back_." The foreboding tones in Bryon's warning influence a certain degree of uncertainty in both Raffe and me.

Slowly, angrily, Raffe backpedals, glancing furiously from me to him. With each step the angel takes back, Bryon takes another step forward, making a beeline for me. Even with the harsh gleam that enters his eyes each time he glances Raffe's direction, Bryon's expression grows softer as he approaches, the hard ridges and lines dementing his face fading into the gentleness I know.

"Are you alright?" he murmurs, extending a hand to lift me from the ground. I ignore the calluses and the haggard claws instead of nails and allow him to lift me from the ground.

Thankfully, he releases me the moment I regain my balance, as if self-conscious about the state of his skin.

"Okay, I guess." I wrap my arms around myself, eyes darting around the clearing.

Bryon's eyes soften further. "And did he…?" Vehemently, he casts a glare in Raffe's direction.

"Afraid so." The whisper might as well have been the rasp of the wind through the trees; Lucius's voice is bodiless, insubstantial. I inch closer towards the center of the clearing, unconsciously towards my uncle as well. I'm not sure if it's the demon's voice or my reaction to it that causes Bryon to growl protectively.

"Who was that?" Raffe demands, seeming uncertain. "What's going on? What did I do?"

"Locked lips with her, you fucktard." Hugo emerges from the same direction that Bryon had emerged. "Jesus, I know we've been out of touch, but seriously, man. You didn't even bother to ask about Lucius? Not once?"

"Penryn?" Raffe's wings shuffle awkwardly on his back as he glances my way. "What is he talking about?"

"Do tell him, Penny," Lucius drawls, his voice booming from all sides. "The suspense is killing me…"

"Don't you get any closer, you cur," Bryon spits, snarling threateningly. His features twist and harden, and a tail pools around his legs. For a reason beyond my comprehension, the staff looks immensely more dangerous in his gnarled hands now.

"Dear me, last time you and I met, I at least was greeted with one of those mighty roars, mister King," Lucius chuckles wryly. "Is that all you have in store for your little niece?"

"That's close enough!" Bryon snarls, remaining focused, impassive to the demon's words.

"She wonders about that, you know," Lucius intones lightly, as if he's delighting over the entire conversation, savoring being in control of everything the way he is. "Oh, we've all heard the story of how protective you are of everything you hold dear, of the fatherly love you hold for everyone – except for her."

"I said that's close enough!" Bryon swings his staff threateningly.

"She wonders why, if you are oh-so-protective of everyone, why you don't try to protect her from one she knows you hate," Lucius purrs relentlessly. "She keeps seeing what you've done, Raphael, in her dreams. I poke around in that head of hers every so often. She sees what a monster you are. Thinks about it. She's thinking about it now. And she knows that Bryon sees your monstrous side, dear Wrath, even now. She's just confused as to why you seem indifferent about that."

"That's Lucius, right?" Raffe flexes his wings, as if preparing them for a fight. "What's he talking about?"

"But you and I, Bryon, you and I know the truth, don't we?" Bryon's jaw tightens. "You and I know that she worries you more than you'll ever let on. Strong, independent woman like that – of course you're worried. She wants to do things her way, whether it's the right way or not. But you don't ever intervene, you always keep your nose in your own business. Why is that, Bryon? Why do you let her choose her own path?" Lucius's voice lowers to a whisper. "Is it because you're afraid?"

Bryon is deathly silent.

"Oh, Bryon, I know," Lucius laughs, a surprisingly warm sound. "I have been there before. All alone, in the dark. Because you always, always run into people like her, don't you? Audiat, Femi, your own brother – and you give them all your heart. You give them everything. You protected them with every drop of blood in your body and fell utterly in love every time. It's in your nature. You give them everything, even if they're unaware they give everything to you in return simply by being there. But they don't stay there forever, do they, Bryon? Well?"

"You can tell all the fancy stories you want so long as you don't get any closer," Bryon murmurs tonelessly.

"So noble! I know the truth." Lucius's voice grows brutally sharp, almost… angry. "They all _left_ you, didn't they, Bryon? You gave them all your heart and soul, you sacrificed _everything_ for them, and they repaid you by leaving you all alone. They all were ripped from your arms or slaughtered like common swine. A man's heart can only be mangled so many times until he breaks. Face it, mister King, you are a broken man. A broken thought has formed in your broken mind, a thought that maybe, just maybe, if you don't give her any instruction, if you don't shield her the way you did the others, everything will turn out fine. Maybe if you don't tempt fate she'll take care of things herself. If you don't intervene, maybe, just maybe, Penryn might live."

Bryon is absolutely silent. He does not stir or twitch, his shoulders do not rise and fall with the cadence of his lungs. Lucius had hit a nerve, I realize.

Hugo, who'd been studying Bryon's face with his eyebrows pinched together, abruptly seems to anger with this, as if by pulling Bryon's strings, Lucius had found an enemy in the usually cheerful boy.

"Why don't you go fuck off?" Hugo snaps, half-drawing the string on his golden compound bow. "Get any closer and an arrow goes through your eyeball. That doesn't feel good, I can assure you."

"But, Hugo, fellow dealmaker, you know I can't just leave without reaping my payment!" Lucius cries with saccharine affection. "Are you getting jealous? Because I didn't include you? How ridiculous! Hugo, you already know why Bryon doesn't fret over you, don't you? Why do we need to go over it again? Pour salt in the wound?"

"Last warning," Hugo murmurs, fixing a steel arrow to the shimmering string.

"Oh, Hugo, I know the feeling of adoring one like a father!" Lucius mourns, sarcasm fading from his voice. "I know how it must seem to you – the great and powerful man, so strong and wise. But tell me, Hugo, if you've ever seen mister King over here treat you like a son? How many years have the two of you been together? Since you were a toddler wobbling around on all fours! And still, he looks at you as nothing more than – than – an accomplice! You will never be his son!"

"No shit." Hugo pulls back the arrow. "Man, I do not have a deadbeat devil as a dad. Don't even try to pin your problems on me. I don't want 'em. I got enough of my own."

"They're not just my problems, Hugo," Lucius sneers. "One trickster to another. Play your cards however you want. I just know how to call your bluffs."

"You think he's improvising this?" Hugo murmurs out of the side of his mouth, glancing towards me. "Or do you think he has a script that says 'Insert Bad Card Wordplay Here'?"

"Hilarious." Lucius seems slightly embarrassed about Hugo's rebuttals. "Hiding all that emotion beneath words. But I have more pressing issues that require my attention. Penny, darling, you and I have business to attend to."

"Don't call her Penny," Bryon growls.

"He just vanished," Hugo reports, bowstring going slack. I grip Pooky Bear's hilt with strangling force, much to her annoyance.

"And you two have no business together, nothing at all," Raffe adds, finally awakening from the way he'd stupidly gazed about with the thick look on his face.

The keen interest in Lucius's voice almost makes him sound like a delighted infant. "Does he not know?" Lucius pauses, expecting an answer. "Does he really not know? That wasn't the first thing you told him when the beautiful reunion occurred, Penny Poo?"

"Well..." My eyes fall to the ground.

"My fault," Bryon laments. "I told him to try out his new wings. My fault."

"So he had no idea as he so fervently pried your lips apart that it was part of your deal with me, no idea as he shoved his tongue down your throat?" Lucius laughs candidly. "Fate is beautiful."

"Would someone kindly explain to me what the hell is going –" Raffe's frustrated rant is broken off as he tilts his head up, eyes going round.

A dark blot passes over the sun, like an eclipse, but for mere seconds – as if something had flown over the sun's face and left a blemish in its light for a few precious moments. Too large for me to make heads or tails of the shape printed on the ground, the shadows flutter and move, like a creature beating its wings. Though initially met with a rather solemn silence, the strange shadow kick starts Lucius's plans.

"That would be a good incentive to stop my prattling about." His voice is rushed, as if uneager to meet the creature that'd cast the ominous shadow. "No need to overstay my welcome. I will collect what is mine to take, and I will be out of your hair."

I stumble back away from where both Hugo and Bryon are focused intently, drawing Pooky Bear. Never before has her flare of wrath been so welcomed, so appreciated by me. Her silvery blade reflects the noonday sun, reflecting it like a mirror. For a split second, I think I see something black and immense hidden beneath the canopies, but as I whip my gaze around to see what might be shrouded by the shadows, nothing awaits me.

Stumbling back, heart pounding, I walk into something hard. The skin of my arms brushes against the silky fabric, much like that on an expensive suit. As I whip around, though, I see nothing, nothing but air.

"Stay calm." Bryon's voice is sweet as honey, his gaze soft, confident, pacifying. "Hush, now, Penryn. Shh."

I realize that each of my breaths had come out like panicked gasps. With much difficulty, I try to calm their wild sucking noises, but my success is limited.

"Remember to closer your eyes, dearie," Lucius purrs. "It wouldn't be very pleasurable for either of us…"

"Calm down, Penryn," Bryon soothes, his voice a bit more forceful, piercing through the veil of fear Lucius's presence creates. "Deep breaths. Deep, long breaths. Oxygen is good for you."

"What's he going to do to her?" Raffe interrogates, accosting quickly towards me. His lips are pricked in a protective snarl. "Penryn, I won't let him –"

And that's when it happens.

Luckily, I remember to close my eyes as a frigid hand grips my chin and a lean arm wraps around my waist from behind. My face is wrenched back, lips arched upwards, and a cold mouth clashes against mine.

I don't know if it would've been worse had his saliva been hot instead of icy – all I know is that the cold, serpentine tongue not only lapping down towards the back of my throat but wrapping around my tongue like a ribbon makes me quiver. I try to fight, lifting Pooky Bear and slicing a nick into his perfect white suit, but as I do so, Lucius grunts in annoyance and knocks it with his elbow from my hands.

Lucius could keep me here for all eternity if he pleased. My limbs are locked, paralyzed, as if his tongue in mine has some sort of poison. Raffe's roar of rage, however, breaks through the ice gripping my limbs, his anger heating a pool of fury in my stomach as well.

Lucius vanishes abruptly, leaving me with my mouth still ajar and my eyes squeezed shut. I open my eyes slowly, afraid of what I'll see.

Raffe rages past, barreling around the clearing and bellowing irefully at nothing in particular, raking hands through his hair to let off steam. He still seems slightly confused, but it's as if he's figuring it out slowly by the look of growing horror on his face. Hugo is perched on a boulder, scanning both the surrounding terrain and the sky – makes sense to look around, what with the mystery beast and angels undoubtedly within earshot.

A warm hand rests at the small of my back, and a cloak drapes around my shoulders, its borrowed warmth allaying some of the violent shivers wracking my bones. Bryon's voice, gentle and firm, comes from beside me.

"Spit the taste out, Penryn. Go ahead. Get it all out."

I gather some of the foul liquid and do exactly as he says – my stomach squirms as it lands on the ground not far at all from where I stand, giving me a clear shot of its nasty gray color. I recall the oozing black texture of his tongue as we struck the hellish deal in Jane's den, and nausea grips me.

"Penryn." Bryon's arms wrap around me from behind, hugging me against his warmth. "Deep breaths. Close your eyes and spit some more. Don't worry about where it goes. Just get it all out."

He breathes lethargically, his lungs forcing mine to imitate them. With each word, the mighty vibrations harbored in his chest assuage me, and with each slow breath he forces me to take, I grow more and more aware of his tranquil heartbeat, only parting with it to lean forward and spit.

"Bryon," I whimper between hacks. Some of Lucius's juices had found its way to my stomach, where it sloshes about toxically.

"I know." A callused thumb wipes the tear from my cheek before it'd completed much of its journey, hiding it from the view of all others present. "You'll feel better when he's out of your system. Try to get as much of it out as you can. The rest… it'll make you sick, but not for long."

It takes much more time than I thought it would, but, at last, I open my eyes, trembling aggressively. "I'm done," I croak, throat dry and mouth still foul.

"I'll go get her a water bottle from the packs," Hugo decides somewhere in the distance.

"Good idea," Bryon thrums. Gently, he releases me, turning me around until I face him again. "Oh, Penryn," he sighs, looking miserable. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let Raphael off his leash."

"Don't play the blame game." My fragile wheeze of a voice seems to jar Raffe back out of his pacing. The proud muscles in his back stiffen and Raffe turns on heel, facing me with wide, expecting eyes.

Before he can say a word, Bryon lifts a corner of the cloak around my shoulders and dabs gently at my lips. My cheeks heat as I realize it's coming away smudged with demon spit, mottled clouds of both tar black and stormy grey.

"You're going to be okay, Penryn," he assures, smiling tenderly at me as he wipes away all signs that the demon had been there at all. "I will not permit this breach again." His head cocks, and a firm resolve slides into place. "Don't worry. I'll make sure it never happens again."

* * *

Initially, my dream is more of a nightmare.

_The roiling of demons and devils haunts my sleeping mind, their gnashing teeth and grating voices like a hammer on my subconscious thoughts. Their gazes instill fear and the lash of their tails swirl around my feet like slimy venomous snakes. High peals of cackling voices cause me to curl into a ball, sobbing into my legs in a fragile attempt to avoid the long, serpentine tongues lapping at my ears and flickering at the edges of my lips. _

_I don't understand most of what they say – only some seem able to speak in English. And those sparse few always seem to be dragging bodies in their wakes; a little girl's head dangling from the bloody strip of her spine, a living man with screaming heads poorly stitched onto the stumps of his arms instead of hands, half of an old woman with her ribs hanging from her torso like the bells on a wind chime. _

_Once, I think I glimpse Bay, but, even though it seems he's trying to push through the crowd towards me, he disappears behind a robust demon with the head of a bull. _

_In the far, far distance of the endless blackness, I can see a mountain forged from onyx, atop it three great silver thrones. The largest hosts a massive demon, his face hidden by a bleached ox's skull, two wings sprouting from his back large enough to blanket the sky and hide all light from this little pocket of hell. Clad in cruel black armor, he is the most fearsome of them all. _

_To his right is a demon half his size, with his face shielded, too, with some sort of African looking mask. A flaming sword hangs at his hip, and a shield is propped up on his leg. On the opposite side is a smaller demon, so small that, had he not been the only speck of white in the darkness, I wouldn't be able to see him. As it is, Lucius is still difficult to spot, being so far and so miniscule when compared to his sinister family. _

_I have no doubt it's that pompous prince of hell that'd brought me here in the first place. _

_But, as I watch the disorderly and rude dancing of the demons as they prance around me in circles of rowdy construction, I can't help but notice that the scene seems to change. The sharp edges of their racks of antlers grow dim, the bright glares of snapping red fire grow dull. With a sensation like I'm falling backwards through the floor, my world fades into white. _

_The whiteness is accompanies by a hollow ringing noise in my ears, broken only once by Lucius's frustrated cry before all is lost to me, and I wake up sitting cross-legged at the end of a long, cobblestone corridor. _

_At the very end is a vibrant stained glass window, and along the hallway, there are more, murals of things that seem vaguely familiar, even though I don't dwell on them long – a man and a woman exiting a garden, men slumped in trenches throwing World War I grenades at one another, and the descent of Gabriel onto a crowd of people – but countless others are foreign, as if they had yet to come. Silhouetted against the massive window at the far end of a hallway is a dark black shape, two triangular ears rising from the huge shadow draping over the window's vibrancy. _

_I rise on steady legs from the ground, and begin to dash desperately towards the dark shape. I'm not certain as to why it's so imperative that I reach the end of the hall, but it sends my feet flying forward and my heart hammering in my chest. I have to reach him before…_

_Before what? I ask myself. _

_Sluggishly, the shadow begins to rotate, as if a great head is turning to face me. As it does so, the ringing begins to return ever so gradually to my ears, the whiteness fogging my vision. Instead of violently bright shades of color seeping in through the windows, the white light dulls the vibrancy, turning them into unfocused pastel blurs. _

_It continues to turn its head, and I continue to force my way forward. It's almost as if the whiteness is turning the world around me into pudding, slowing my strides and tarring up cries of greeting in my mouth. It grows closer… closer… and the whiteness grows to such intensity that his black form is the only thing I can make out, the ringing swelling to such pain that the sound of my feet hitting the ground is lost to me. _

_The shape of a canine head is poorly outlined by the white. It turns to me, and its eye slides open, revealing the dazzling electric blue pupil hidden beneath the monstrous lids of the creature. _

_Whispers echo in my mind, a deep, throaty voice. My vision tunnels around the blue. Though mostly an unintelligible mass of words and phrases, one thing is clear to me in the flood of whispers: _Don't wander far.

_Lost in the power of that bright blue gaze, I feel myself slipping, ebbing away into the white…_

* * *

**Sorry about not posting this for so long – it's taken a long time to write and edit. Couldn't quite get it the way I wanted it. **

**POLL: Lucius tried to get under both Bryon and Hugo's skin with words Hug dismissed and Bryon ignored. Could there be some truth to them?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	33. Chapter Thirty-Two

**Chapter Thirty Two**

Audiat starts as an angel sits beside her on the stone bench, wrenching her quite rudely from her reverie. Though initially alarmed, when she lifts her gaze to find another pair of red eyes staring back at her, she relaxes, puffing out a relieved sigh.

"Are you aware of the fact that you have a tail?" Josiah murmurs to her, his posture one of feigned casualness.

"Josiah!" Audiat laughs, putting her sketchbook to rest in her lap in order to wrap her arms around the angel's neck. Her greeting is met with stiff muscles and a tense attitude.

"He's been following you all day," Josiah urges, sounding stressed. "Using standard techniques to dwindle behind you. Keeping one eye trained on your back all the time. This is the first time I've caught you without him around."

"I assume you're talking about the brown-eyed Hispanic?" Audiat hums, returning to her drawing of the delicate flower she sits in front of, partially shaded by the willow tree overhead. "If so, I'm not actually alone. He's up on the balcony of the second floor, mopping a deck that's scintillatingly clean."

His crimson eyes dart about uneasily. "How are you not nervous about that?" Josiah hisses, his fists clenching. "How are you taking this so calmly?"

"He's either keeping an eye on me to wait until I'm alone and strike, in which case I can take him," Audiat explains, "or he's here to make sure that I stay safe. Either option, he's not going to make any premature confrontation."

Josiah rakes a hand through his hair. "Audie, he's got the build of a warrior. I don't like this."

"Since you've analyzed him so well, I expect you're aware of the fact that he has wings," Audiat sighs, putting a softer glaze over the surface of one of her flower's petals. "Right, Sherlock?"

Startled, Josiah looks up rather obviously. "What – how can you tell? He's not an angel, is he?"

"Lord, no, I already checked all the records with Metatron earlier this morning. No, haven't you ever heard of a Nephilim, Josiah?"

Josiah's face twists into a gruesome scowl. "I keep my nose out of that business, Audiat, you know that. And, anyway, what is one of… those _things_ doing here?"

"What are _you_ doing here?" Audiat counters, shrugging. "He hasn't told me, and neither have you."

"What?" Josiah blinks. "I'm here to confirm that the rumors of you she-angels rising up again aren't true, last time was a nightmare. Ariel was a little concealing in our meeting. I don't like it. But – don't change the subject! You're relaxed with a possible killer padding around your heels like a psychotic puppy dog!"

"It's a Nephilim." Audiat lifts her head from her notebook and smiles reassuringly, finding his concern more adorable than foreboding. "It's highly unlikely that it's here for any ill-intent. If it is, there's probably a bunch of little Nephilim police scurrying around cleaning him up."

"Right, right." Josiah eyes Audiat ambivalently. "You're very cozy with them. I forgot."

"You didn't protest them too much when Simon saved your feathery ass from wasted Wrath of God that one time," Audiat points out, smiling in amusement at Josiah. "Don't let Raphael's viewpoints on things taint your own vision, Jo. He's your hero, I know, but everyone makes mistakes."

Josiah falls silent, his pale face thoughtful, brooding. Audiat takes the opportunity to soften the lines of the flower's stem, to add more of a shadow beneath the petals. She bites her lip, eyes darting to the blossom and then back to her sketchbook.

"If you keep giving him sideways glances like that," Audiat murmurs, resting the end of her pencil's eraser against her lip, "he's going to notice."

"Oops," Josiah apologizes, automatically casting another glance towards the man. "What are you drawing, even? Why are you sketching a flower from a pot in the middle of a garden full of natural flowers?"

"I'm trying to see the way the light falls on the petals," Audiat explains distractedly. "This type of flower never ever sees the sunlight. That's why I want to draw it so badly. The Miracle-Gro will only help it for so long."

"Why does it never see the light?"

Audiat glances down at her paper and smiles, pleased with the drawing. "I just finished, so I can show you." She leans forward, pulling the pot towards the two of them. It grinds over the mulch, groaning as it's dragged between the two of them.

"Help me shade it," Audiat instructs, lifting her wings to create a shadowy umbrella over the delicate blossom. "It won't last very long as it is, but the sunlight makes it shrivel."

Audiat leans forward and taps a single petal of the flower, smiling as it emits a blue glow over Josiah's face.

* * *

I push up from the bed that'd been forged from our meager supplies, causing Bryon's silky cloak to roll off my shoulders and my unprotected skin to taste the bitter breath of the oncoming winter. The roiling thoughts of the dream I'd suffered through distracts me from the icy chill, and I find myself desperately grappling for explanations there aren't any answers for.

The blue eye blazes in my memory, its image as sharp as a brand on my mind. I wince and rub at my temple, trying to grasp the feathery remnants of the words he'd spoken to me. Something about not wandering off…?

"Penryn?" Raffe's voice is soft but urgent. "Is something wrong?"

I jump with surprise, lifting my eyes from the patch of trees I'd been studying intently to find Raffe silhouetted against the moon, its ivory rays turning his feathers into beautiful, shimmering platinum. Highlights of silver ripple over his figure, making his skin glow. The term "fallen star" crosses my mind.

"Uh, h-hi," I stammer, meeting his gaze awkwardly. Not allowing a pause, I questioned hurriedly, "Are you on watch?"

Raffe cocks his head. "Something like that."

Despite my efforts to evade it, the pause comes, more awkward than I'd expected, and much longer.

"Have you slept recently?" I wonder, slipping the cloak higher up on my shoulders to guard myself from the cold.

Raffe is quiet for a moment more. "You seem to be feeling better," he notices, navy blue eyes skating up and down my blanket-encased body. "Do you think that bastard's poison is nearly out of you?"

"Stop changing the subject," I chide, bundling myself up in the reeking blankets.

From beside me, Hugo pounds the ground irately with a closed fist. His sleepy grumble is barely audible through his lumpy pillow. "Stop having soap operas while people are _trying to sleep_."

"Sorry," I whisper apologetically. He responds to the act of kindness with a certain sleepy finger.

Hesitating for only a moment more, I tie Bryon's cloak at my throat and rise from the warm, comfy bed, standing unsteadily. My legs shake beneath me as I stumble towards Raffe, and my feet catch on every ridge, every root I pass. Though initially fine, my brain begins to pound and my vision begins to swim. I focus on the ground, but the rise and fall of my feet still make it worse.

A warm hand wraps around my bicep uncertainly, as if unsure if physical contact is acceptable by society. Raffe's voice husks in my ear. "I guess Lucius's poison isn't gone. You should get back to bed."

"I'm fine," I insist, shaking my head in a frail attempt to clear it. "Help me over to that log you were sitting on, please?" His hesitation is palpable in the air between us. "It's okay. You can touch me without summoning the prince of hell."

"In that case…" There is something mischievous in Raffe's voice that makes my stomach both churn and heat. Before I can voice my concerns, the world spins and my stomach pitches. When I open my eyes, I find myself snugly fitted in Raffe's arms. Nervously, I meet his dark gaze, slightly afraid that the angel will trip and drop me. At least my head is better.

Raffe sits down on the log and grants a brief yet strange falling sensation to my stomach. Not once does his gaze quaver. The constant thunder of his heartbeat is lulling, his warmth better than the entire mass of blankets protecting me from the cool nighttime air.

"Sorry," I whisper, snuggling up against his chest, putting my ear over the soothing drumbeat. "About yesterday. …Or maybe it's still today."

"You stole the words from my mouth." Raffe sounds incredulous. "Why are you apologizing? What could _you_ possibly apologize for?"

"For ruining your big moment." I glance up into his navy blue eyes once. "I mean, okay, it wasn't strictly my fault –"

"Damn right," Raffe mumbles.

"– but it's still not right." I try to nuzzle closer to his chest, try to draw even nearer to that pounding heartbeat. "You'd just gotten your wings back. You were celebrating. It was… a happy moment. It got ruined, and your first flight ended up kind of disastrous."

"You think?" Raffe chuckles, his voice slightly warmer than it'd been previously, not as burdened with the hidden grindstones of self-hatred.

"My point is… sorry." I clear my throat. "I don't think you'll be getting much sympathy from anyone else, though."

Raffe chuckles, but there's no amusement in his tone, only grave recognition. "Your uncle… I thought he had me on lockdown during the trip here. I think the real fun is about to begin." He sighs heavily.

"You're letting him boss you around?" My eyebrows shoot up, mirth playing with the smile at my lips. "You? Wrath of God? The 'Great Archangel', whatever the hell that means? Almighty Raphael?"

"No, I'm –" Raffe cuts off abruptly, as if struck by something of greater importance. The power behind his navy blue eyes intensifies, drawing my gaze and locking it onto his. "Don't call me that. I'm serious."

I blink up at him, furrowing my brow. "What? Raphael? I thought that was what you wanted."

"Right." His head tilts to one side, as if he's studying me. "It was. But can't a man change his mind?" Shaking his head, Raffe sighs gravely. "Penryn, call me Raffe. Names have power… and I thought that this particular nickname was different. It _is_ powerful on your lips. In fact, I like it on your lips. So keep saying it, please."

My eyebrows pop up. "Did you just say please?"

"No."

"Right." I laugh softly, rolling my eyelids shut and leaning against his chest, breathing in his scent as subtly as possible. "Raffe," I whisper, sighing happily. "I love that name. I love your name."

"…Thanks?" The puzzled tone in his voice causes me to smile faintly. "I think you're getting tired. You should rest up. I'll put you back in your bed."

"You need to sleep, too," I protest, forcefully prying my eyes open to meet his gaze. "If I'm sleeping, so help me, I'll make sure you sink with me."

Raffe hesitates. "Fine." Before I can protest anything, his grip on me shifts, and the world spins once more. I try not to groan at the pounding in my head, biting my lip to keep it inside. When the movement pauses to allow for reorientation, I find myself resting on top of Raffe, find that he'd stretched out along the log, regardless of its moist and moldy surface. With each breath, I rock unsteadily, but at least his heartbeat is still beneath my ear.

"Are you a back-sleeper?" I question curiously, finding that quite bizarre.

"Is that surprising to you?" Raffe chuckles, craning his head up to peer at me on his chest. "Not most of the time. These tend to get in the way."

He lifts both of his glorious wings, seeming smug with their beautiful preened appearance – and they are beautiful, he has every reason to be smug. The shafts are molten silver, glinting gently in the starlight, and the beautiful snowy fringing almost pale powder blue in color with the moon's assistance. Only the notch in the feathers I'd chopped into the wings is the break in the perfection – and somehow, I like it that way. It's almost like a little angelic nametag.

I find myself wondering if the wings still have a ghost memory of me raking my hands through the gentle feathers, and wondering whether the memories of raking my fingers through the feathers is quite as blissful as I recall.

I reach out to touch the feathers, to see if they're as soft as I remember them being, but he flinches away, jerking them from my fingers. They hover out of reach, close, yet separated by an invisible barrier constructed by Raffe. My cheeks heat and I swallow to stomach my embarrassment. My hand drops back to the log.

"Sorry," I mutter. "Shouldn't have done that. I don't know what came over me."

"No, it's okay." Raffe sounds uncertain. "You don't have to apologize."

But his wings don't wander back into my reach, propped carefully away.

I don't waste the breath to apologize again and prolong the scene. Instead, I ponder upon his reaction – truthfully, it wasn't that strange. If someone had wanted to stroke my newly reattached arms, I'd have been mildly freaked out, too. But maybe there's more to it than that – maybe it's some weird social thing. Maybe to stroke an angel's feathers is something with deeper meaning than I'd realized. The only times people stroke each other's arms are couples showing domestic affection to one another, after all.

What if angels aren't all that different?

"Are you alright?" Raffe murmurs in concern.

Spooked at being so quickly yanked from my thoughts, I jump slightly, realizing I'd been descending into the darker chasms of slumber. "What? Yeah, yeah. Why?"

"Your heart skipped a beat." Raffe shrugs beneath me. "How about you don't do that anymore? It jerked me from my peaceful place."

"Sorry."

"Stop apologizing for everything. And if you apologize for that I will flay you alive." His tone grows deathly serious. "Don't think I won't."

"I hope not." I blink blearily as I study the sleeping members of our group, sighing lowly. "Then it's open season for Lucius, too."

I realize a few seconds too late that I might be poking a stick at a sleeping bear – when we'd first broken the news to Raffe, he'd flown into a sort of rage, yelling in fury at the ground beneath his feet as if his warnings could reach all the way down to Hell itself. When that'd grown old, he lifted his blazing blue eyes from his feet and met my gaze. It had been terrifying, the way he'd stormed towards me, bellowing about how it was my fault to have made such a stupid deal, about how I did everything on purpose, about how I could've done anything different, but instead, I'd chosen to submit to him.

Of course, Bryon marched him off very forcefully after a short fight – I remember recalling Emilio's words about a proper duel being more a dance than a fistfight and comparing it to the elegance they both moved with. Bryon took advantage of Raffe's rage and managed to get him into some sort of arm- and wing-hold, then he marched the archangel off into the woods without another word, no saying where he was going or what he planned. Hugo gave me some tonics for the stomach aches and Ogden whipped up some natural remedy, then the two of them shunted me to bed.

I'd fallen asleep terrified of Raffe's return.

Thankfully, though, Raffe takes it almost unnaturally neutrally. "Penryn, why did you go with that particular deal?"

"There was no other way." I swallow, closing my eyes, unwilling to think about it.

Raffe is silent for only a brief moment. "I know you can't reverse what happened or anything, but wasn't there? We could've dealt with your sister's… difficulties _together_, Penryn. We don't have that option anymore."

My heart clenches at his words, the heartbeat strangled and hammering. But despite the agony he deals out, dread starts to ice over my innards and a cold and heavy weight settles in the pit of my stomach.

I lift my head slightly, peering up at him. "You know, right?"

Raffe's eyebrows lift. "What is there to know?"

"Oh, God." Bile rises in my throat. "Oh, God. You don't know?"

"Know what, Penryn?" One of Raffe's hands lift to caress my cheek, his callused fingers following me even as I duck from his touch. "Penryn? What's going on? Is there something I should know?"

I try to put my head on straight, but I find myself just as frightened of Raffe's reaction to my news as I am of being the Devil's bride. At least being a bride won't physically harm me. I'm not balanced on the Devil's chest, looking down into his eyes like an insect ready for him to crush.

He seems to notice this in my expression in those searching eyes of his, and, almost instantly, his gaze parts from mine, searching around. If I didn't know better, I'd say that the rosiness at his cheeks was a blush and not a bizarre shadow cast by the light of the moon.

"I won't do that again, Penryn," Raffe promises in a voice as soft as velvet, his eyes saturated with pain. "I promise. That was Raphael. I'm Raffe. Raffe, you hear?"

"Raffe." My lips are like planks of wood, barely allowing the word to escape my mouth.

"Yes." The hand resting on my cheek wraps twines through my fingers, bringing our hands up nearly to his face, pausing before the dusky pink lips, as if remembering the curse I'd bound him to. "What's the matter, Penryn? What hasn't Bryon told me? Tell me."

And so I do. I tell him.

"What?" Raffe whispers, his hand around mine going slack.

The dam breaks and I collapse against Raffe's chest, babbling and chattering some sort of run-on version of what'd happened. I tell him about my mother's deal and about her demons, I tell him about how Jane's labyrinth had taunted me and about her demented experiments, I whisper softly into his ears about my father and how he fell from glory, I tell him about Lucius and about how his words are every bit as poisonous as his spit, and, last but certainly not least, I tell him about the horrendous claim that the demon made and how I'd not been able to save both my sister's soul and mine.

Aside from an occasional gentle "Go on" or "Yes?", Raffe is utterly silent, drinking in everything I say. His eyes are glued on the moon above us, never once wavering. It should irk me, should make me want to gather his attention away from the brilliant silvery orb lighting up the sky, but I can only be thankful not to meet his gaze. It's bad enough that I have to see the bob of his throat every time he swallows or hear the angry spike in his pulse with each new tale.

When I do finish, though, he meets my gaze, and I'm startled to find raw, unshuttered emotions lying just beneath the blue, hidden by only one glassy layer. They study me with warmth and pain and tender concern buried in the blue that I've never seen before.

"No," Raffe whispers simply.

My heart snaps in two at that word – such potential for power, a potential for a mighty rebuttal, a refusal ringing out for all to here. _No_, Lucius _cannot_ have me. _No_, Lucius will _not_ win. _No_, Raffe _hasn't_ given up.

But all that potential is gone to waste, as "no" is also a word in a broken man's vocabulary.

He lifts our still intertwined hands and gently nudges a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. Tender yet amazingly vast and powerful, his pain seems to course through him with a sudden heartbeat, and his embrace around me tightens by a tenfold.

"No, no, no, no, no, no…" As the word progresses and grows angrier, more defensive, Raffe's grip strengthens. He bundles me against his chest like a prized teddy bear, nearly strangling me in his arms. For some reason, I don't fear being crushed anymore – his bated breath holds the hidden cadence of gentleness, and not once do the powerful arms crush too hard. I hold my breath as his arms close tighter, bands of steel. He gently presses his forehead to mine with an awkward kink in his neck, but I doubt he notices.

"No," Raffe whispers, his lips frighteningly close to mine, but I know that's the last thing on his mind at the moment. "No. He can't have you. He can't. You're mine, you hear? Mine… He can't… he just _can't_."

"I'm sorry." I nestle back against his chest, breaking the contact of our foreheads and lessening the crushing pressure of his arms around me with a little body squirm. "I'm sorry. I am. So sorry."

"Not your fault, Penryn." His voice hitches, and I can picture him gulping painfully. Raffe's wings slide over me like heavenly soft blankets, the white plumage covering me nearly from head to toe; the night's chill couldn't reach me if it tried. "Not your fault."

* * *

_In vein, I try to dash to Raffe's side, to aid him in his bitter battle – or perhaps to make him stop fighting. I am unsure of which I prefer. But I am sure that I walk sluggishly, as if I am caught in a great vat of molasses, unable to move towards the great battle with more than a lethargic trudge. _

_Unlike the graceful dance with Bryon, Raffe no longer fights elegantly. He is benevolent and terrible, fierce to a fault. It's more terrifying than I'd ever seen him – eyes narrowed with bloodlust, teeth bared in a furious snarl. His fingers are curled around the hilt of Pooky Bear like the talons of an eagle. _

_Lucius, however, is the one the scares me the most. He fights with no blade, but holds his own. With tips painted silver, needles like porcupine quills emerge from his shoulders, ripping his white suit to shreds. Some drip with blood, as if Raffe had been unfortunate enough to come into contact with the barbed quills. His face is angular and brutal, his lips drooling black saliva over their crimson coat of fresh blood. The hooks on his wings drip with toxic poison, also coated in blood – I pray that it's a coincidence that the positions of the bloodied hooks correspond with the scratches etching up and down Raffe's arms. _

_"NO!" I try to scream, shoving my way forward. "NO! STOP IT!"_

_But not a sound escapes me. _

_One of the razor barbs tipping Lucius's wings lift, poising above Raffe's chest threatening. I shriek, but I can't make a sound they can hear. Raffe doesn't receive my warning, doesn't know Lucius is ready to strike until the hook is buried in his chest. Crimson blood gushes around the scythe, then waterfalls as Lucius pulls it viciously free. _

_My scream reaches neither of their ears, but it goes from horror to terror in a matter of seconds. _

_Replacing the flow of blood almost immediately are dark, coarse hairs, as if Lucius had merely ripped through an outer shell, revealing a little bit of a monster beneath. _

_Stunned, I don't push any further against the force holding me back. I gawk at the unsettling events unfolding before me, and, for the first time, I ponder if I'm in a dream. _

_Roaring with outrage, Raffe strikes back, slashing over Lucius's chest as well. After the initial spurt of black blood, sickly yellow hair grows in, the dirty white to match Raffe's glossy jet black. _

_Numb with horror, I watch as the two rip into each other, each blow bringing more fur onto their bodies, gnarling their muscles even further into deformed monsters. At one point, Raffe cuts off Lucius's arm and part of his wing – the wing grows back same as before, if anything, slightly larger, but the arm grows in like a paw – a canine leg replaces Lucius's arm, awkwardly dangling from his shoulders. Lucius retaliates by taking his new wing and ramming it through Raffe's maw and to the back of his throat until the tip of the scythe emerges through his hair. Raffe's massacred mouth is replaced with a boxy snout complete with long yellow fangs. _

_It comes to the point where they don't even use the pretense of landing blows. They grapple with one another like hulking beasts, those with hands left grabbing the flaky tarps covering their opponent's body, the tarp that use to be skin, and yanking them off not to reveal blood and organs, but a fresh coat of fur, fresh and ready for action. _

_As a monster, Raffe is a terrible fighter, absolutely merciless to the smaller beast. His ivory claws seem made to kill, and his snout snapping for blood. It scares me. _

_In fact, by the end of the dream, I'd go so far as to say that Raffe wasn't even Raffe anymore. I'd say that he was the one that I was most afraid of. Raffe was the real monster. _

_But, as had all my other dreams, this one fades into white as it nears its end, and the ringing returns to my ears. I wake up sitting next to the great black shadow with the large blue eyes. _

_The light is still bright, too bright for me to make out many details. But I could swear that we're sitting in the same corridor as last time, the shadow and I, staring up at a stained glass window. The only thing off about the glass is that it seems to move, that the black angel and the white demon seem to tear into each other in front of me. _

Love makes monsters of us all. _With the speed of a glacier, the beast turns his head towards me. _Do you understand?

_But, almost immediately, he sighs in my mind. _Of course you don't. Remember it, though, Penryn Young.

* * *

**What a brilliant point for me to leave you at!**

**I regret to inform my lovely readers that I'll be going on a short vacation – don't worry, I'll be back before you know it! When I return, though, I'd love some reviews from those that never show up – that's always a treat, and it'd be a great "Welcome Home!"**

**POLL: Audiat and Josiah – four red eyes. Thoughts?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	34. Chapter Thirty-Three

**Chapter Thirty Three**

Audiat's eyes narrow, watching critically as Ariel approaches the follower. The she-angel glides over the marble floor more than she walks, and her wings turn platinum in the starlight, two silver teardrops against her flowing black gown. With a tip of his dark head, the Nephilim greets Ariel – not with a hint of surprise or a smidgen of fear or even respect in his air.

Struck by the oddity the boy provides, Audiat tilts her head to one side. A question lurks near the back of her mind, wondering what Ariel, the powerful archangel, could need with that particular servant late into the harrowing hours of White Wolf's reign, but such a petty ponder is quickly replaced by more deserving thoughts.

A cold hand grips Audiat's shoulder. She jumps back, craning her head until she meets another pair of crimson eyes.

"Audie. We need to talk."

* * *

_Bryon wears a peculiar suit as he dusts off a beautifully carved wooden hutch, the smooth black fabric adorned with tassels along the edges. He's around twenty in age, younger than I've ever seen him in the flesh, but he looks odd not clothed in his usual brown, bronze, and beige color pallet. Somehow, it makes his eyes burn brighter, and the tumble of brown hair over his forehead even more metallic. _

_The room in which he resides is grand – the ceilings soar high and are ornamented with paintings like in regal cathedrals, and every furnishing seems beautifully constructed. A gleaming golden chandelier dangles from the ceiling. Plush carpets blanket the hardwood floors – I smile, noticing that Bryon's feet are bare as he wanders the area, dragging his sandals behind him with one toe. _

_When the glossy wooden doors are thrown open with a rattling boom, he quickly slips back on his sandals, and whirls around, duster in hand, to face a drunken Raffe swaying in the doorway. _

_"Ah…" He swallows, setting down the feather duster. "Is the party over already, sir?"_

_Raffe grunts, throwing out a hand to support himself on the doorframe. He blinks up at the chandelier, eyes fuzzy, seeming almost annoyed with the light it casts. After staring up at it for an extended period of time, he mutters something too soft for me to hear and throws himself at a plush couch. _

_Bryon's eyebrows pinch together. "Ah, sir, how much did you have to drink?"_

_Raffe waves a hand dismissively, muttering something into the couch cushion. His snowy wings shuffle and unfold, as if the stress of the party can be released with that simple action. Some of the white feathers are stained with dark red and brown splotches – not as dark as blood; as if it's only wine and beer. _

_Tilting his head to one side, Bryon obviously studies the same feathers. "I suppose much more than advised. Sir, you should probably get to bed. Tomorrow, you can carouse, drink more, and get wasted again, but tonight, you should rest up." _

_"DON'T MOCK ME!" Raffe roars, pushing up from the couch, his face contorted with rage. "I AM WRATH OF GOD!"_

_"Yes," Bryon soothes calmly, approaching him with submissive gestures, "you are. But even God's mighty wrath sleeps on occasion. Surely your bed must be more comfortable than that couch."_

_Raffe mumbles something about insufferable monkeys and shoves himself from the couch. He slouches lazily on his feet, barely making it a few feet before he collides into a dresser. Then, he makes it maybe two, leaning against the wall. _

_"Here." There's almost warmth in Bryon's eyes as he approaches his old enemy with open arms. "Lean on me. I can help. I'll carry you."_

_I expect Raffe to accept Bryon's help – maybe with a bit of groaning and moaning, maybe with grouching and slouching. But I don't expect Raffe to react violently. _

_Fury blazes to life in Raffe's eyes. He whirls around and grabs Bryon by the shoulder, his knuckles going white with the force emitted. Then, after securing the crushing strength on his shoulder, Raffe slams his fist into Bryon's stomach. _

_"I DO NOT NEED YOUR HELP!" he bellows. _

_Bryon mewls with pain as Raffe punches him again. _

_"I DO NOT NEED ANYONE'S HELP!" he snarls. _

_If I could cry out, I would, as Raffe's fist this time makes something snap in Bryon's ribcage. _

_"LEAST OF ALL YOURS!" _

_Raffe tosses Bryon backwards as if he weighs nothing, sending my uncle reeling into the same sofa he himself had collapsed on. The crystals on the chandelier rattle with the force of the impact. Scowling to himself, muttering about monkey weaklings, Raffe hobbles another step towards the bed, before toppling onto the hardwood floor. _

_Bryon starts to cough – the awful, rasping coughs that are usually accompanied by juicy spurts of crimson blood; his hacking is no exception to that unkind rule. But instead of splattering the disgusting red all over Raffe's fine couch, he covers his mouth first with his hand, then with a strip of his servant's suit's fabric. Pushing himself up from the sofa, shaking his head, coughing up rivers of blood into the napkin, Bryon limps over to Raffe. _

_He takes the unconscious angel and slings him over his shoulders. The gentleness in his shaking hands is astounding, especially considering the turmoil he'd just undergone. Swaying with the effort of supporting both of their weight, Bryon painstakingly drags Raffe to a massive four-poster bed. _

_Letting Raffe slump over the ground, as limp as a dead body, perfectly still aside from the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, Bryon pulls back the layers of blankets and comforters until he reaches the mattress, and then positions Raffe on the bed as gently as possible, cradling his head on the feather pillow and swaddling him in blankets. Bryon even goes so far as to hobble into the kitchen and hobble back with a pot to place at the foot of Raffe's nightstand, assumedly for the next morning's hangover. _

_My vision of the pair begins to fade away as Bryon painfully makes his way back to the feather duster, picks it up in shaking hands, and finishes his job. _

_But it doesn't fade as it normally does – I feel as if I'm being dragged backwards instead of falling backwards, and, when everything comes back into focus, it's as if I'm staring at a mural. _

_Not a mural. A stained glass window. _

See the truth._ Urgency strengthens the voice's power, and my vision is steered to another portrait bleeding colored light. _Know the past.

_Again, I find myself with Bryon and Raffe – this time, though, Raffe is of perfect health, and Bryon is the one with little strength. _

_Raffe leans on a balcony overlooking a busy work yard with bustling slaves dragging equipment to and fro – the men and angels bound in shackles work in the heat of the desert sun without water nor shade, stamping their feet on the red earth between towering mesas, gazing longingly towards the shadows cast by rock piles slowly creeping over the ground towards them. Enslaved angels seem to do most of the grunt work, padding down the mine shafts pitting the ground, and humans merely cart around the prizes they dig up or equipment. Raffe seems to be overseeing the activities, scowling as he does so, wiping the sweat from his brow. _

_Dragging his feet slightly, Bryon walks slowly up to Raffe from behind. Though it couldn't have been more than two or three days that I'd skipped, Bryon looks worse than before; a black eye blemishes over his face, as if it hadn't looked worn enough. His once curbed and elegant suit is frayed and filthy. Something about the way he winces with every step tells me that either his foot had gotten screwed up recently or the rib – maybe even ribs – Raffe had broken still bother him. The weariness in his gaze catches me off guard – I've never seen him look so tired, never seen past his happy façade this easily. _

_"Sorry I'm late, sir," he rasps, voice hoarser than it'd been days before. "It won't happen again. I promise."_

_Raffe turns his head towards Bryon, looking at him over his shoulder. "I want to keep you around, Simon," Raffe murmurs quietly, voice deathly soft, "but you show up late today, and yesterday, you didn't show up at all. You left me with some stupid monkey bitch. I want to warn you, your incompetence will be your downfall. If this happens one more time…"_

_If I didn't know better, I'd say that Bryon is hanging his head. "Sorry, sir. It won't happen again. I'll make sure of it."_

_Raffe harrumphs, and channels his attention back on the scurrying slaves below. "Fine. Well, I don't have anything for you to do right now. You might as well fetch me some cold water. With ice. Or maybe something with a little more kick..."_

_Bryon peers over the edge, and his eyes widen. After a brief hesitation, he shakes his head. "No, sir," he says quietly, "I can't do that. I'm sorry. If you have nothing to do for me, I want to help out down there."_

_Raffe's navy blue eyes roll angrily back to Bryon. "Are you refusing a direct order, Simon?"_

_"No." He tilts his head to one side. "I'm refusing a bratty preference. It's not like I'll do any harm down there toying with servants, sir."_

_Lips quirking, Raffe studies Bryon with something akin to praise. "Fair enough. Have fun."_

_And, immediately, Bryon vaults over the edge of the balcony. My eyes widen, wondering if Raffe will notice anything out of the ordinary as his "human" servant jumps from a two-story balcony and lands lightly on the balls of his feet, but he's too caught up in sulking about the heat to notice much of anything. In fact, the only one to really see his leap is the old man that'd most likely gotten his attention in the first place. _

_The man's arms and back are cut with slices carved by cruel blows of a whip – some are old and silver, tracing over his skin like tattoos. Others are more recent, angry pink in color, complete with puckering flesh. Most, however, are red and oozing, created by a nasty recipe of grime, sweat, pus, and blood. He's only skin and bones, without a scrap of meat or fat to keep him going. He's harnessed just like any of the younger men are, but, clearly, the man is too frail to continue his work. _

_Hovering over him is an angel, half-draped in the shadow of the balcony. The brutal strip of leather curling down from his fist is raised threateningly as he growls angrily at the old man, snapping the whip around his feet as he struggles to stand. The only things I can truly see clearly are his reddish skin and the beautiful dappled brown wings he lifts balefully. _

_Bryon lands elegantly between him and the elder, eyes blazing defiantly. "Quit that. Now. I'll take his haul."_

_"What?" The angel's confused growl is vaguely familiar. "Get outta the way, you. We don't have time for Raphael's pet around here."_

_Bryon's gaze darkens further. "I'll take his sled full of supplies and two others. From now until whenever this man's work hours end. Not one sled at a time – all at once."_

_The angel's eyebrows lift. "You want to work yourself to death with three full sleds?" He lowers the whip. "Be my guest."_

_It takes next to no time for the elder to slip from his restraints. The old man thanks him lavishly, scuttling off to visit his grandchildren and escape the heat of the day, leaving Bryon to bake in it. _

_Bryon takes off his shirt before strapping on his harness, revealing the filthy bandages that were once white, now caked with blood and filth. Dark purple bruises mottle over his chest, especially at one shoulder and his stomach. He grimaces as he tightens the chest and waist strap of his harness – they both run across the livid purple contusions, the coarse leather biting into his skin. But with determination and good old pain, he tightens them until he's satisfied, and clasps three sets of sleds to the designated rings on the harness. _

_Initially, I think it's impossible for Bryon to drag supplies to the other end of the work yard – it's a mile or two apart from the mine shaft closest to him and the farthest one, and the angel is especially malicious as he piles the three sleds high with equipment, instructing Bryon to fill them to the brim with the metal nuggets the angelic slaves are digging from the earth. _

_Bryon does it, though, vanquishing all doubts. It takes him a few slow, painful steps to get moving. The leather bindings creak and groan as Bryon digs his heels into the red sand of the foreign desert, and the three sets of ropes tying him to the sleds all go taut. Sweat mats Bryon's hair. Slowly, ever so slowly, he steps forward again and again, until he gets a constant rhythm going. And then he walks as fast as any of the other men, with three sleds hissing in his wake, their side panels scraping against one another with each step he takes. _

_Before he makes it to the opposite side of the mining tunnels, the subject of my dream changes abruptly. Now, I am back with Raffe, and a guest I had not expected. _

_"You're perplexed by him, aren't you?" Audiat hums, approaching Raffe from behind just like Bryon had. Her ruby eyes glow tenderly in the desert's cruel sunlight, and gentle shimmers of soft rose pink are illuminated through her white hair by the bright light. _

_"Who, by Simon?" Raffe grunts, twisting his head around to cock an eyebrow. "Suppose so. I can't see why anyone would want to do that."_

_"He is a man of God," Audiat explains, leaning on the rail beside Raffe. "He does what's right, no matter the personal pain it inflicts. God knows he's more than patient with your messy lifestyle." She casts Raffe a sideways glance. "You shouldn't be so hard on him, you know."_

_"Silence." Raffe straightens his spine and shades his eyes, frowning deeply. "What is that runt doing? Why is it approaching Simon?"_

_Audiat follows his train of vision, and the little color her pale cheeks can provide drains. "Oh, dear God, no."_

_And, just like that, my point of view shifts again. If I had cheeks at all, the color would drain as well. _

_A little tiny Hugo darts between the legs of burly angelic slaves and wiry human livestock. It's odd, seeing him as a child – so scrawny and awkwardly proportioned, with big ears and wide, coppery eyes, not to mention the broadest smile I've ever seen on a boy his age. Despite his overall healthy appearance, the dark blotches beneath his eyes hint that he'd been sick just recently. Hugo carries an oversized backpack with him, the very hints of Bryon's cloak flapping at the edges. _

_At first, Bryon is utterly unaware of Hugo, even as the boy dashes towards him, grinning and waving and calling his name. The moment that Bryon does see little Hugo, he has the exact same reaction as Audiat. Glancing once towards an avenging shadow quickly darting over the derelict field, Bryon snarls and thrusts himself forward, jerking against the fetters of the sleds. He falls to the ground, cupping his own body over Hugo's and protecting every inch of the boy with his flesh. _

_It almost looks wrong, the large, powerful man bent defensively over the child – something so mighty, so strong and capable, making himself vulnerable to guard something so weak and soft. _

_The angel that'd strapped him up in the first place viciously whips at Bryon's bandaged back, as if maybe the pain he inflicts will make my uncle release Hugo. But he doesn't – if anything, the lacerations slicing into his flesh only make Bryon hug the boy tighter against him, bundling Hugo protectively to his chest. _

_"STOP!" he roars furiously. "STOP! HE'S JUST A BOY! IT'S ONE MISTAKE! PUNISH ME! LET HIM GO!"_

_The angel pauses, his feet touching the ground. And, with the light shining on his face and his majestic wings folding on his back, I recognize the angel as Baelan. _

_Baring his teeth, Baelan holds the whip up again. "Give me one good reason, fleabag. I'll whip the life outta your boy there if you don't give me a reason not to."_

_"He's sick," Bryon explains, lifting his face to focus the power of his scalding glare on Baelan. "For God's sake, the boy's sick! Let him go. Find someone else to punish."_

_Hugo's coppery eyes are visible from the shadow Bryon casts over him as they dart about in fright, and his arms are linked around Bryon's neck. His eyes widen as the streams of scarlet spill over Bryon's back, smacking against the dusty sand. "I'm sorry," I hear him murmur, voice heavy with the hints of oncoming tears. "I just wanted to give you your cloak." _

_Bryon massages Hugo's back in consolation with a single hand, silently warning him to keep quiet. _

_"Fine." Baelan raises his wings again, bracing his feet as if preparing to lift off. "But I want you jogging, you hear? No more dragging your feet! We've lost enough time because of your fucking kid…"_

_Red dust swirls around him as Baelan soars high into the sky, returning to his post beneath the balcony, hidden from the sweltering heat. _

_"I'm so sorry," Hugo moans miserably, pawing at his teary eyes. "I didn't know – I just wanted to – I thought you needed –"_

_"It's okay," Bryon soothes, wiping away the child's tears and calming his nerves with one of those gentle smiles I know warm you from head to toe. "You couldn't have known. Thank you for bringing my cloak, Hugo. I was starting to miss it." He pulls it free from the bag, admiring the fabric before throwing it over his shoulders. "Can you clasp it for me, Hugo? You know how much I suck at it…"_

_Sniffling, Hugo reaches up and does the tie, seemingly finding comfort in the simple action. _

_I don't hear any more of their conversation. Instead, I listen into Audiat's and Raffe's. _

_"Who is that boy and why did Simon get whipped for him?" murmurs Raffe, as if he's still confused. Of course, he probably is confused – if I were to guess, I'd say that Audiat has been frozen in place as she watches the horrible events unfold from a distance, unable to assist either one of them, and is only now loosening up. She'd have been nearly impossible to worm an answer out of. _

_"That's…" Audiat shakes her head to clear it. "That's his boy. The one he missed work for yesterday. Don't you know?"_

_Raffe starts in surprise. The sunlight dances over his sweaty forehead, sparkling with gold, as he turns to face Audiat. "Simon has a family? He's got a wife? Kids?"_

_"Well… yes, and no, too." Audiat shrugs, recovering herself. "He doesn't have a wife, nor does he have children from his bloodline. Hugo is an orphan, but, honestly, I'd say that Simon's his father as much as anyone else." _

_No comprehension alights in Raffe's eyes._

_"I mean, it's just the two of them and their pup against the world. Hugo adores him like a father, and he adores Hugo like a son. Also, Simon risked your anger to care for him yesterday after he got one of those nasty stomach bugs."_

_Raffe furrows his brow, his expression one of confusion – it awes me how, even when bewildered, he can maintain a regal beauty in his aura. "I thought he stayed home yesterday because he got in a street fight. How did he get those bruises, then?"_

_Audiat's eyes blow wide, like two red pools on her pale face. The sunlight casts golden shafts through her crimson pupils. Her mouth drops open in a candid combination of surprise and horror. _

_"He didn't ever tell me that you don't remember," Audiat whispers, voice softer than a breeze through an orchard of willow trees. _

_"Remember what? What do I not remember?"_

_"You don't remember two nights ago after you got so drunk you could barely walk, correct?" Audiat verifies, clutching a bracelet anxiously, her stark white eyelashes stroking her cheeks in comfort. _

_"No." Raffe lifts an eyebrow, staring at Audiat in puzzlement. "Simon always makes sure I don't hurt anyone. It's why I've kept him around for so long."_

_"Kept you from hurting anyone, did he?" Audiat murmurs beneath her breath. "My ass. Everyone but himself, maybe." Then, clearing her throat, she continues, saying, "All those times that Simon showed up in the morning with unexplained bruises or sores or open cuts?" Audiat shakes her head. "Nine times out of ten, Raphael, those were because of _you_."_

_"What?" Raffe's tongue sharpens. "I did nothing of the sort!"_

_"I've seen it in action, so don't you try to deny it. Every night you get a little more than tipsy – scratch that, every night, period, he deals with your turbulent mood swings and barbaric strength. Instead of allowing you out of that suite of yours to wreak havoc on everyone, he locks you in and becomes your glorified punching bag. He consoles you and tolerates you and tucks you in bed every night and then goes to make you breakfast for the next morning before creeping home to a hungry mouth to feed. You're telling me that you don't know about this?"_

_"No." Raffe scrunches his brow. "No, that can't be right. I think I would remember giving him those –"_

_"You wouldn't," cuts off Audiat irately. "Great Lord in Heaven, how does he deal with you? How does that good a man get stuck with a bitter old drunk like you?"_

_"Watch your tongue!" Raffe snaps, eyes blazing. _

_"Oh, what will you do?" Audiat huffs, turning on heel, her little hands curled into tight fists. "Tear it out?"_

_"I might!" Raffe calls after her, but despite the anger steeling his tone and the indignant rage in his eyes, there is a crippled pride hidden in his aura. As soon as Audiat disappears back inside the building, he twists back to study the slaves, eyes tormented with unanswerable questions I can't begin to understand. The whiteness comes, dragging me away from that tortured gaze and back into the long hall of stained glass. _

Do you see? Perhaps not yet…

_But before I can be fully dragged back from the vision and hurled into another reality, another presence interrupts the great black beast. Before it can recoil enough to retaliate, the softer being wraps me in its blanketing arms and pulls me away from his cruel world. _

_Instead of witnessing horrible scenes of slavery and abuse, I am merely wrapped in a spectral white and gold glow, with no end or ridge, pillowing my every muscle. The only difference in color is a rosy pink and crimson apparitional female silhouette, far in the distance, and the two black eyes pitting her face. _

Stop that. _A single scarlet wing rises, and, on its downward swipe, the last of the black beast's influence falls, like a chain clattering to the ground. _She does not need your torture augmenting her terror. There are more pressing matters to discuss.

_I blink, trying to focus on her shape in the midst of the white glow, trying to place the gentle flowing cadence of her speech. But no answers arrive and, quickly, I'm shown another scene, this of a great white monster throwing up clouds of dirt. _

_Hooves shaped like blades kick at the dust in the air as the creature rears. Releasing a grating whinny that sounds like thousands of blades scratching against one another, the monster's feet fall back to the ground with a rumbling crash. _

_Over its neck and rump fountains of gooey liquid much resembling phlegm ooze, like a sickly mane and tail. A shackle around one of its slender forelegs is the only thing that binds it to one place, a massive black chain held at taut attention. The most terrifying part is that the creature towers high above the mountain it's tethered too by at least a hundred feet. _

_In the back of my mind, the female's lilting voice continues to whisper. _A dear friend of mine has brought with him troubling news. The Horses have been summoned, and their bonds shall not hold them back forever. In fact…

_She trails off, allowing me to focus on the events unfolding. A sparse collection of wary angels approach the raging monster, one of them chanting in a language I can't comprehend. Whatever he's saying, it catches the monster's attention – it braces its four legs, standing before the group, its quivering nostrils lined with crusty mucus. _

_They lift something at the end of the incantation, something that looks vaguely familiar. My heart leaps in my chest, recognizing one of Raffe's mangled leathery wings, crooked and unkempt and stiff with separation. And, as I focus on the wings themselves, I also notice the hands holding them, and the face that'd chanted to the monster. _

_Uriel. _

There was a turncoat. _ Fear trembles in the woman's voice. _The Seraphim were not to be trusted. He knows that Raphael is back. And he knows that Wrath of God wants his head on a stick. Uriel has gone to the extreme, pulling the Four from the depths of Hell. Three remain tethered. The Horse of Victory, Conquest, and Pestilence does not.

_The monster's snot-caked nostrils puff and breathe in deeply. Uriel's goons wobble in flight to deal with the sudden change in winds. Craning its head forward, the creature almost touches its nose to the bedraggled wing. It pulls back with a boisterous snort, shaking its neck the way a horse may flick its mane. It shrieks again, baring needlelike teeth in anticipation, kicking out at its chain. _

_Uriel raises a hand. Something on the ground near the base of the chain moves, like a hidden henchman ready for deployment. The chain snaps moments later. _

_The woman's fearful whisper is barely audible above the monster's triumphant screams. _It's coming, Penryn. It's coming for Raphael.

_I want to yell, want to ask her what to do, but I am mute, forced to watch without comment. _

_As if by magic, she seems to know what I want to hear. _

Warn Bryon. He has battled one before, and although he wasn't successful – _a quick image of a massive sickly yellow monster with black liquid pouring over its haunches flashes, and, beneath its hooves, a sprawling dragon – _he knows better than any how to deal with it. It won't catch up to you for a while yet – it's escaping the Swiss Alps as we speak, but it won't take long for it to reach you, and when it draws near… Watch your back. Always be on the move. Be wary. It isn't like this thing can stealth around all too well.

_Who are you? The words gum up on my tongue, never leaving, never echoing around the shared space between minds as I hear hers doing, but the message gets across without flawlessly. _

Your aunt, silly girl. Now. Wake up. They already know, and it is on its way.

* * *

"Up, up!" Hugo chants, shaking my shoulder vigorously. "Lovebirds! We need you!"

I bolt upwards, the memory of my dream fresh in my mind. My hands, planted on Raffe's chest, fist around his shirt, tightening with the stress of Audiat's message. Startled by our abrupt awakening and by my terrified grip on his shirt, Raffe blinks up at me in confusion, the brilliant blue color hazed with the remnants of his slumber.

"We need to move!" Hugo skips over to the few snoozing people left on the ground, kicking dirt at them. "Jesus, Mama Young, time to get up! Don't hiss at me – I can out-crazy you! Is that a challenge? Is it? Didn't think so! Ogden, you too? Come on! It is time to get up! Time to seize the day!"

"Bryon," I gasp, launching myself off of Raffe, elbowing him in the gut while doing so. I attempt to dash to my uncle's side, but my left knee gives out halfway across the clearing, buckling and refusing to hold my weight. The ground is cold and slightly damp beneath my knees, and I scrape my hands on a rock that I'd fallen on.

"Penryn." Bryon gently pulls me to my feet, his calloused hands holding me up without quaver. "Be careful. It hasn't all left your system yet. What's so important?"

"Audiat," I murmur, lifting my gaze to Bryon's, drawing comfort from the bronze disks in a sea of black velvet. "Audiat… she said something about…"

"Audiat?" Bryon's brow furrows, and an alien urgency – an exigent curiosity – hardens his face. "What do you mean, Penryn?"

"Audiat?" Raffe questions in confusion from behind me. "What about her?"

"I mean – she was in – she told me about – about a horse –"

One of Bryon's broad hands clasp around my upper arm, holding it firmly. There is a sense of both concern and necessity as he gazes intensely at me, studying my face. He cocks his head.

"In your dream?" he questions quietly, narrowing his eyes. "You saw Audiat… in your dream?"

"Dude, we can discuss this later." Hugo shuffles through his stuff, tossing gear into a duffel bag. "Uriel has sent the Horse of Conquest and Pestilence after you, Pigeon-Bat. Nasty creature. We got rid of all four of the Horsemen last Apocalypse, so their loyal equestrian monsters aren't the most pleased with us. Plus, those bad boys are impossible to kill. If you actually do kill it, it just reforms elsewhere. Thus proving the point that we need to get a game plan now, Bryon."

"It's across the Atlantic Ocean," Bryon dismisses, raising his eyebrows at Hugo's whims. "Those things move fast – over land. Even real horses can't swim all that well. Right now, I need to address this."

Hugo rises from the mouth of his duffel bag, looking utterly bewildered. "What the hell can be more important than a Horse of the Apocalypse on Pigeon-Bat's ass?"

"What?" asks Raffe, sitting up, looking alarmed.

"Penryn, in this… dream, was there anyone else?" Bryon's bronze eyes seem more reflective than usual tonight, glinting mysteriously in the light of the moon. "More accurately, was there a thing in this dream? Another presence? One with a voice like… like the sun itself was speaking?"

"Uh, yes," I stammer, blinking in rapid surprise.

"Were you having… not ruminations, not memories, but visions of things past, most likely things you haven't seen before, things that give you hints on how to continue?"

"Yeah, actually."

"Were there any stained glass windows?"

"How do you know all this?"

Bryon releases me, the only dwelling hand the one closed tightly around my upper arm, leaving me to support most of my weight. Tipping back his head, Bryon looks up at the moon, allowing its ivory glow to bathe his face. Eyes burning bronze, he turns back to me, calm and meditated, as if a brief glance to the night's blind eye had put a balm on whatever had been bugging him.

"Hugo, figure out all the statistics of this Horse," he orders, voice soft, yet the most commanding I've heard him since Sercem Domu. "Contact Ariel, arrange something. If we hide out at the she-aerie, we should be relatively safe – get her to summon a squadron of male angels on some nonsense reason, that way, if the Horse does attack, we'll have witnesses. We need to meet with her in complete secret, and Raphael – no one should know he's even there, none of the she-angels, none of the he-angels, _no one_. If this little screw-up with the Seraphim has shown us anything, it's that we can't go around trusting everybody."

"Yes, sir." Hugo scrambles through the duffel bag, searching for his computer.

"Penryn, we need to take a walk, you and I." Bryon smiles, mystery pulling at the corners of his lips. "We have much to discuss. Family secrets."

He winks, and beckons me towards the woods.

* * *

**Click, click, click. **

**That's the sound of the gears working, moving this story along. **

**Okay, so, I know I advised this person to you once before, but, looking back, I've realized that errors due to spam filters lead to me not being able to get this URL across. I'd just like to give another little shout out to ChillyPeepPenguins – she's done a few fanart pieces for this fanfiction on the blog chillypeep-dot-tumblr-dot-com. I highly advise checking them out. **

**POLL: Bryon once mentions that angels don't remember humans – in fact, he calls it the golden rule. He says that their eyes skate right over most humans. So my question is this – would Raffe notice that his manservant – the one that practically tucks him in at night – is identical to his archnemesis he always chases around the planet? He obviously didn't recognize Bryon when they first met as Simon or his enemy. And what does that mean about Penryn?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	35. Chapter Thirty-Four

**Chapter Thirty Four**

How dare you.

_Audiat's mind trembles with the effort of maintaining even the smallest of defenses against the presence's malicious attacks. Even being near the rage tears at the fragile wall she'd constructed between herself and the beast, never mind the fact that with each heavy paw he claps against the stone floor towards her makes it more difficult to protect herself. _

How dare I what? _Audiat's usually articulate mental voice comes out as little more than a nervous squeak. _Rescue a girl from your talons? Save her from becoming your helpless slave?

_His huge ears swivel towards her, and his bright blue eyes grow round with fury. _It is not your place. And all rebellion against me shall be punished.

_Now only feet away from Audiat, the great beast rears up on his hind legs. Time seems to move in slow motion as he splays his magnificent white wings, baring their true glory against the rainbow colors of his stained glass windows. _

_Audiat screams with agony as he slams his paws back to the ground, shaking the tiles beneath her feet. _

Do not disobey me, fragile wishing star. I do not like being slighted…

* * *

"Why do we have to go so far from them?" I pant, almost jogging to keep up with Bryon's brisk, long-legged strides. "I mean, Raffe only can hear so far, right?"

"Besides my mild case of agoraphobia?" Bryon's eyes flash comically. "We were not the only ones in that stretch of woods. We seldom are. Though… perhaps we can slow down a tad."

"Thank you," I sigh in relief and relaxing my pace to a peaceful stroll, lulled by the swaying black trees swallowing us and the winking stars beyond their inky canopies. "So, what's so secret that we have to be so far from everybody, anyway?"

"First thing's first: I lied." Bryon smiles dryly. "It's not technically a family secret. A secret between Audiat and I, yes, yes it is – but my parents and yours have no more idea about this than you do."

"You and Audiat?" My curiosity waxes. "What do you mean? What do I have in common with the two of you?"

Bryon sighs heavily. His eyes roam the surrounding forest, as if constantly searching for eavesdroppers. "You've got a bit more in common with Audiat. But… well… it is difficult to explain. I'll try my best. You remember White Wolf and Black Wolf, yes?"

"Yes."

"There's more to them than the common stories tell, things that a very few are aware of – things like the fact that White Wolf honestly doesn't care about the Clockwork Angel anymore or that Black Wolf is out for her blood. It's hard to keep from Hugo, but – I make do. But enough of that; it has nothing to do with the dilemma at hand. Unbeknownst to the public eye, White Wolf and Black Wolf occasionally take pity on a pair of people, sympathizing with their plights and favoring them above all others, occasionally even fighting for them. That is my secret."

"…I don't understand."

"I haven't finished. White Wolf tends to favor ones that look or act like monsters, but have a soft heart inside, a gentleness beneath their scaly hide. Thus White Wolf is my patron." Bryon lifts a hand to silence my questions. "Black Wolf tends to favor those that look or act innocent, but have a sliver of ice in their souls, a hardness and a desire to do what's right, no matter the cost. Thus Black Wolf is Audiat's patron."

"Having a patron." I tilt my head to one side. "What does that mean?"

"It means they… well, they favor you," Bryon explains simply. "You aren't their champions or anything grand like that. It simply means they empathize, and they help in little ways to assist you on your journeys. They also walk with you in your dreams."

I halt completely, jarred from the slow pace we'd been travelling at. "Do you mean…?"

"I mean," Bryon concedes, nodding his head sagely. "I suspected it when I met your sister in the Garden of Eden, but now that it is confirmed, I can begin to teach you more about this world around us."

"The Garden of Eden?" My brow furrows. "What was Paige doing in the Garden of Eden? What were _you_ doing in the Garden of Eden?"

"Ah, yes." He leans on his staff, smiling knowingly at me, eyes warm as melted butter. "There was a bit of a mistranslation in the bible you use today – an angel with a flaming sword was not sent to guard the gates of heaven. A white wolf demon with a blazing heart was. The two have certain domains, places that don't truly exist anywhere but inside our minds – you could say that they don't exist at all. Black Wolf reigns over the Halls of Memories – it's a place where, on their journey to be judged for Heaven or Hell, a person must walk through a long corridor, with stained glass windows on either side of them of all their memories, good or bad. All memories reside there."

"That explains the flashes of the past," I whisper. "But – but if the Garden of Eden only exists in your mind when you sleep, how did Adam and Eve… I don't know, even happen?"

Bryon shrugs. "Commonly debated. People believe that humans were just mental forms for the longest time, and because of their extended time being only collections of thoughts, your kind became so intelligent. I'm not sure what to believe, or if Adam and Eve ever really existed. Much before my time."

"Does that mean there is a God, then?" I shake my head, trying to clear it. "I mean, if the Garden of Eden exists, and Heaven and Hell exist, and the wolves are these entity things with the ability to take on favored people… There's got to be some force behind it all, right?"

"Exactly my point," Bryon approves, his smile touched with mystery. "But, unfortunately, I can't really share that perspective in debates without indulging on certain facts that must remain secret. By the way, you can't tell anyone about this – there is rumored to be a way, amongst other preferred people of the world, for one of the favored to compel its patron. If there is such a way – it must be kept secret. The sort of power that they possess is not something to be meddled with. The only person you may speak with this about is me or your sister, and only in utter privacy. Is that understood?"

"Yeah." I rake a hand through my hair. "Yeah, I guess. Hey, why was Paige drawn into this? It's not like – she doesn't exactly fit the 'monster on the outside, goody-goody on the inside' persona very well. She's good all the way around."

"For a while there, many would consider her a monster, regardless of what was blazing in her soul," Bryon points out, drawing in the dirt with the tip of his staff as he thinks. "She appeared far before you reported having strange dreams, around the time I assume the experiments were conducted. Not actually being conscious in the Garden – just like you were seeing visions of the past, she was seeing the future."

I tilt my head to one side. "The future?"

"Yes, the future, White Wolf's time zone. It, in a way, reflects their personalities, the time they reign over – Black Wolf is caught in the past, remembering the brilliant angel he used to be, remembering how sweet his life with the Clockwork Angel used to be, remembering the days when he was revered instead of feared. White Wolf views his transformation under a much brighter light – he is excited for the future, and eager for the moment when time becomes new even for him. Rebirth was a blessing. He forgets the past and the creature he used to be, instead focused on the one he will become. I'm not saying he's not utterly insane – because he is – but I do like looking forward rather than looking back."

"So… just like I see the past, you see the future? Like, prophecy and stuff?"

"Yes and no. Whereas the past is set in stone, the future is very volatile. Anything can happen. One future that was possible yesterday may not be possible today. I don't really pay attention to any of the 'prophecies' anymore."

"Oh." Worry gnaws at my heart. "Did… did Paige see anything that could've… scarred her? I mean… she's okay, right? If she saw herself die…"

The moonlight wreathes Bryon's head, something I'm now not utterly certain is a coincidence. "She didn't see herself die," he consoles. "She saw you die, of course, killed by that angel you wrestled with in the lab, but – well, you're still here today, aren't you? Don't worry. I wouldn't have let her suffer."

"Thank you." Thoughts still on Paige, I wonder, "So… if you and Audiat resemble both sides of the spectrum and then Paige and I, too, does that mean there's a sort of pattern? A symmetrical sort of thing? Opposites attract, maybe?"

Bryon lets out a long puff of air, looking down at the ground and the squiggles he'd carved into the soft dirt with his staff. "That's a good question, Penryn. Is there a method to their madness? I honestly don't know, Penryn. White Wolf allows me to wander the Garden of Eden every so often – I'm not his consultant."

"Oh." I nod. "Okay." After a hesitation, I add, "I was going to ask you why Black Wolf chose me, but… I guess it's pretty much the same answer, huh?"

"No, actually, it's not." Bryon shrugs, as if struggling for words. "Black Wolf stands for loyalty, courage, and strength. All three of those qualities are found in you, Penryn. You're persistent and will do absolutely anything if you believe it's for a good cause. You stormed an aerie to get your sister back, even though she was most likely dead. You posed as an angel's whore to get information. No, there's no question to it, in hindsight. You are Black Wolf's favorite."

My cheeks flush with heat. "Oh. Alright. I can… I can accept that."

"You sure?" Bryon teases, grinning playfully.

"Now that you mention it, I do not accept that at all." I grin back at him. "In fact, I deny any of that actually happened."

Bryon chuckles, but, unfortunately, doesn't supply a good comeback. Perhaps his mind is too pure to tease anyone, too innocent to harass another, even if it's all in good fun. But he does, however, continue the conversation on a more serious note.

"If you have any additional questions…," Bryon trails off, shaking his head. "Before long, you'll be able to wander the halls. You'll probably be able to run into Audiat in there, and she can guide you just like I did with Paige. But if by the time that we reach the she-aerie you still haven't managed that level of dream skills or whatnot… she'll coach you in person."

"You two always seem really cute together the few times I've seen," I compliment, smiling up at him. "I can't wait until the reunion."

The reverberating chuckle Bryon emits bemuses me – it's merry enough, still warm as buttered toast, but it's spiced with a note of ambivalence, of doubt, of almost anxiety. Though I try not to shoot him a curious glance, I end up doing it anyway.

"Hey, Bryon?" I ask, keeping my curiosity lidded.

"Yes?" Open, affable, welcoming – ready to answer any question I may ask.

"Just recently, I saw something where… where you were posing as Simon." Biting my lip, I ponder on how to phrase my next words. "Well… I was wondering… how did Raffe not notice that Simon had the same face as a pesky Nephilim? He obviously knew who you were once you revealed you were half-angel, but… why not before? And why doesn't he recognize you as Simon, even now?"

"Now, here we travel into more adamant studies," Bryon murmurs, rolling back on his heels, eyes skyward. "To recognize another, humans look at a few key features – the face, the stature, and the hair. Those are what you and I are most familiar with, what matter the most. But with angels, two faces are often very much alike in their eyes."

"What do you mean?" I wonder, fascinated with this new information about Raffe.

"I mean that, because they all look rather similar with their perfect, arrogant beauty, they don't recognize one another by facial features. In fact, angels recognize other angels solely by their voices and their wings, which are most individual than fingerprints. True, a few other factors can be added in there, like skin color or maybe the eyes, but that's how they work in their feathery minds."

"How do they classify humans, then?" I question, entranced by the answers I receive.

"Mostly by the voice – they're not real keen on faces." Bryon smiles warmly. "It's why striking females sometimes go unnoticed. If they're too perfect and plastic surgery has left too many lines on their face, they look too much like she-angels for extended periods of interest. But others – like you, for example – have unique beauty, unlike anything they're accustomed too in their own ranks. You're _fascinating_, though of course they'd never admit it."

I blush, but the compliment implanted in his words doesn't rupture the sleek flow of my critiquing thoughts. "But – but if angels recognize each other by voice, how come Raffe didn't notice that Simon and evil-monster didn't have the same voice?"

Bryon chuckles in dry amusement. "That can be attributed to the good old golden rule: angels don't remember humans. He wouldn't have really grasped the vibrations of my vocal chords until later in our… I can't call it a friendship. Besides, it's not like we often chatted as we brawled. If we did, I growled with monster's lungs, whereas I spoke quite eloquently as Simon."

"So… if I sauntered up to Raffe talking like a southern belle… he wouldn't be able to recognize me?" I offer, smiling to myself.

Throwing back his head, Bryon laughs in the best way – the mellifluous rhythm of his rich authentic laughter is much more satisfying than his polite chuckles and chortles.

"It might throw him for a loop," Bryon acknowledges, still smirking at the thought of it, "but not for more than a second. Sorry."

"Disappointing." I don't think up a more witty response, though.

Instead, I recall the aerie where Raffe and I had celebrated a rather eventful reunion. He hadn't recognized me, not at first – he'd ogled, as if in a trance, as if there had been something eerily familiar about me. It hadn't been until I'd grunted as I'd inflicted a bloody blow that Raffe had delivered those heavenly words: "It really is you."

My reunion with Raffe brings up another thought, one regarding Bryon's with Audiat's, and the ambivalence I'd found so out of place.

"Bryon…" I glance up at him, blinking a few times. "Will Audiat recognize you? I mean… you're her husband, right? There's no way that something like that would just… slip her mind or whatever. Right?"

The benevolence pulling at his lips falters, slowly shifting into a more poignant emotion. He quits fiddling with his staff and his shoulders fall. A spider's thread is all that keeps his lips perked upwards, and the thinnest of gossamer sheets is all that separates his cool façade from the raw misery I see festering in his bronze eyes.

"No, Penryn," Bryon says softly, his voice trembling slightly. He swallows with difficulty much difficulty, looking skyward and slowly closing his eyes. "No, she won't. She won't remember what I'm like at all."

"That can't be right," I protest, not appreciating the sudden melancholy turn the conversation has taken. "The Watchers remembered their Wives, right? Down in the Pit?"

"They did," Bryon acknowledges fairly. "But all they had were their memories to pick through – no one could see anything in that dank darkness, so it was easy to envision their wives' faces, simple to remember the vibrant colors of happier times. And they helped one another, too. It's only Audiat up there, and all the colors of her paints laid out before her to distract her mind."

"Paints? She's an artist? She could be painting pictures of you, then!"

"She tried, Penryn." His smile becomes brittle. "But she never got it quite right – faces were hard for her. She didn't even get it right when she had me right next to her. Most likely, she's tried, but her paintings have only grown more and more unlike me. Maybe she connects my name to a face that isn't mine at all."

"Right, but, she can look at memories with Black Wolf's help, right?" I smile hopefully. "Maybe that's all the jumpstart she needs to get her mind ticking."

"Penryn, since when do you remember your dreams well enough to paint an accurate picture of them?" Bryon shoots me an exasperated glance. "Trust me, Penryn, she won't remember a thing about me."

I can see that my attempts at cheering him up are beginning to poke in tender areas, and that, though he tries to remain collected, Bryon is beginning to become irritated with my poking, but I try one last jibe.

"She saw you as a Nephilim, right? Dragon-mode? There's no way anyone could forget that."

Bryon blinks twice, staring at me first with surprise, then with consideration. Before he shields his emotion again with its sheath of welcoming warmth, I catch a blaze of hope flaring in those brilliant eyes. As he smiles at me, it feels authentic, not just some wall thrown up to defend his inner turmoil.

"That is true," Bryon chuckles, wringing his hands around the staff. "I suppose need be, I can just storm up to the she-aerie in my scaly suit, can't I?"

"See? Not nearly as bad as you'd first thought."

"We'll have to see," Bryon hums indifferently, but he still seems optimistic beneath his nonchalant skin. "Now, I doubt we need to hang around here forever – do you have any more questions for me about Black Wolf, White Wolf? It's a lot to take in, and we can have another Q&amp;A session after you've had time to mull over it."

"Um, well, have there been other 'favored' people? Are there others right now, living in breathing? Or are we just freaks?" I shake my head quickly, eyes widening. "That came out harsher than I meant it, but you get the picture."

"We most definitely are freaks," Bryon acknowledges, cocking his eyebrows wryly, "but that's not the reason why. There's none other than Audiat and I at the moment, but there have been some in the past. All gone now, unfortunately, but all led brilliant lives. I expect you will be no different."

"What are we supposed to do? I mean, like, what was the point of us getting this specialness or whatnot? Do I have powers or something weird like that?"

"No. No, you don't. Very sorry to tell you. And being favored doesn't have a point, either; it's as if I told you that I favored you above any other in our party. Does that change your goal, who you are? No, it doesn't."

"Okay… what's Black Wolf like? I mean… should I avoid him? Should I be afraid of him? Should I respect him?"

Bryon shrugs. "I have no earthly idea. He's an ass for selling me on that plan to only send the he-angels off, but other than that, I've got no clue. You'll have to wait for Audiat. I highly advise keeping him at a very far distance."

"What's the Garden of Eden like?" I wonder, eyes wide.

"Magnificent. Imagine my full-moon blossoms, except everywhere." He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, as if recalling the perfume of his flowers. "All the plants light up with many, many different colors, like a rainbow. The sky is always dark – the sun never shines there, but you don't need it, because the aurora borealis shines just as bright as sunlight, not even mentioning the moon closer than it ever is on Earth and the stars that burn like diamonds. Fluorescent creatures wander the thick woods, like nothing I've ever seen – things that weren't tempted by the fruit on the willow trees in the center of the gardens, and thus have never left. Even the smallest streams are deep like abysses, but you can breathe underwater there, and the coral and fish glow, too. It's beautiful. I love it there."

"That does sound magnificent," I agree, eyes wide, picturing a moonlit jungle. "Are your blossoms there, too?"

"Oh, yes," Bryon agrees eagerly. "Yes, lots of mine, with all sorts of different colors. I didn't learn how to do my thing there – my dad taught me – but I did learn a few other tricks." His eyes light up. "There's this one golden flower that's always blooming there. It looks a bit like a lily. It detects Godly energy, which means that although it blooms constantly in the Garden, it hardly ever shows its face here. Only when God comes through the Holy Fire – or the burning bush, as you may know it."

"I think I saw one of those in the Chaza," I realize, brow scrunching. "How is that possible?"

"I did pray to the lord for guidance in one of the churches one night, and the honorary bush there did flicker with fire for a few meager seconds." Narrowing his eyes, Bryon tilts his head to the side, like a confused puppy. "I didn't think that would be enough, though. Maybe someone's prayer got answered." Abruptly, his face lights up again. "Do you want to see something?"

"Uh, sure." I lean back against a tree, enjoying the cold bark against my back. "What is it?"

Because of his towering height, Bryon doesn't have to reach far to pluck a single leaf from one of the mighty trees we dwell beneath – the one he chooses a broad maple leaf, healthy and supple. He balances it perfectly on the palm of his hand. After glancing once excitedly up at me, he glares at the leaf.

The veins burn to life with the same gentle glow as his flowers had, simply this time in lavender. It lasts mere seconds, but it's fascinating, to see the leaf stained black by the darkness webbed with lilac veins.

"Hey, that's cool!" I exclaim, watching as the leaf drifts to the ground. "Why can't you show other people that?"

"Not sure. Never really felt like it. There's always more pressing matters than a pretty little leaf." He scratches at his neck, eyes downcast. "Actually, there's probably more pressing matters right now. We should head back, see what's going on. You can ask me about other things on the way back, but no more about Black Wolf and White Wolf, you hear?"

"Got it." Hesitating, I smile timidly at him. "One last possibly stupid question. Do they actually have names, the mutts, or do you just identify them by color?"

"They used to have names," Bryon sighs, shaking his head slowly. "I doubt they can even be considered as the same souls, though, so no. I'd say that they wouldn't even register their names nowadays; I'd say they wouldn't even register their past selves, either. They're not the things they used to be. Not at all."

I glance up at the moon, shivering beneath its lazy gaze. "Do you think that either one is good? I mean… you said Black Wolf is out for the Clockwork Angel's head, but White Wolf was the one that got them in the situation in the first place, right?"

Bryon halts abruptly. Expression hardening into bitter steel, Bryon almost glares my direction, his lips pricked. Between his narrowed eyelids, I see the black line of his slitted pupil flickering up and down my figure.

"No." There's a gruffness in his voice. "No, Penryn, neither one of them can be considered good. In fact… don't you dare get close to Black Wolf, don't tangle with him. He is less vicious than White Wolf, but much, much less complicated. If you tick him off" – his eyes blow wide as coins, the snakelike pupils quivering slightly – "he will kill you."

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. "I – I thought you said that I was favored by him."

"I don't know what that means, Penryn." He looks up at the moon, and the glare of the starlight in his eyes almost making it look like tears. "I know that being favored by White Wolf means that he is reluctant to kill us. I don't know if that's the same for Black Wolf. And I can't protect you from him like I can protect your sister."

"Okay." I curl my arms up in a hug around myself. "But… it doesn't make any sense… why would he…?"

"He doesn't make any sense, Penryn." Sighing heavily, Bryon looks to the ground, long lashes batting. "Think about it. He's spent thousands of years fighting the epitome of insanity, resisting White Wolf's vicious powers. All it takes is one slip and then Black Wolf's undeniably crazy. In my humble opinion, that's why Black Wolf is so furious with the Angel."

"Because he's crazy?"

"Because he's absolutely bonkers."

* * *

"Don't disturb her," Ariel whispers, slamming her hand up into Josiah's chest, halting his brisk approach. "She doesn't get like this often."

Ripping his gaze from where Audiat sits cross-legged on the ground, babbling to herself while dipping her fingers in the open cans of paint carelessly strewn about. Shocked, Josiah stares dumbfoundedly at Ariel, cocking his head.

"What? What do you mean?" He smacks Ariel's hand away, but hesitates in the doorway, heart leaping with uncertainty – true, Audiat's actions frighten him slightly, but why should he stay away from her…? The tears dribbling down her porcelain cheeks are an exclamation of pain. In what world would Ariel wish to prolong her good friend's agony?

"She doesn't do this," Ariel whispers, shoving Josiah back another foot. "Look, look at her art! Most of the time, when she sleep-paints, it's of things in the past, things she can recall – but that? That's scarcely ever happened before."

Josiah blinks. "So? What does that mean? Why should we care so much?"

"Look at it." Ariel's voice subdues to an awed whisper, like a child entranced by something the likes of which they'd never seen. "Look long and hard, Josiah. What do you see?"

Bewildered, Josiah studies the art she paints on the wall – it's not fully finished, with mere outlines all that defines the shapes of the two grappling creatures. But on the floor surrounding Audiat are other murals, ones carrying more foreboding tones – a black wolf and a dragon with bronze scales brawling, teeth aimed for one another's throats, a lion with its beard stained red sitting on a tiny rock crag in a sea dead animals, a she-wolf and a viper locked in bitter combat, a lamb bleating in pain as vicious creatures clamp onto its back legs and hinder any escape, and a beheaded monkey slouched over the body of a dead dog, its coppery eyes shining dully.

"Explain to me what's so aweing about a bunch of animals." Puzzled, Josiah meets Ariel's dark gaze with confounded interest. "Is there some code behind it all?"

"Maybe," Ariel whispers. "But can't you see, Josiah? It's an omen, a warning of things to come. We just need to crack the code, to figure out what's headed our way and stop it."

"You mean, other than the Horse?"

"Other than the Horse. Even a Horse of the Apocalypse wouldn't trigger this. The last time this happened…" Ariel trails off, shaking her head. "The last time this happened, she was predicting her own meeting with her husband, one of the most powerful chess pieces on the playing board – at the time. Now…"

Scrunching his brow, Josiah first studies the murals on the floor, wondering why some creatures are drawn with fine fur or scales whereas others are crude and malformed, as if monsters. Then, his eyes rove up to the one Audiat dabs at now. Breathing in sharply, he watches as she takes her thumb and mottles over the weary eye she'd sketched onto the wall with bronze scales.

"I think I know what might be coming this way," Josiah murmurs, pointing to the picture of the great bronze dragon splayed awkwardly in a way that can only point to one thing, and the shadow of a man standing over it.

Before Ariel can respond, the sharp trill of a cell phone going off rattles through the sleeping chamber, and awakens Audiat.

* * *

"Okay, the good news is, Ariel is willing to take us in now that Raffe has his wings back on." As we enter the clearing, Hugo snaps shut the lid to his silvery flip phone. "She likes this whole 'no one knows we're there' crap. A whole lot."

"When you start something out with 'the good news is', you always have bad news, too," Bryon sighs. "What is it?"

"A couple of things." Hugo tosses the flip phone to Ogden, leading me to believe that it'd been his. "For starters, there will be no male angel backup, because it's too damn risky. Hell, she's not even letting Josiah know, and he's the only real one she… _sorta_ trusts? Oh, I don't know, I think she's bipolar with her alliances. Anyway, Audiat is also going with Josiah on their mission away."

"Oh?"

Raffe lifts his head, as if he, too, had detected the strained note in Bryon's otherwise indifferent voice. Finding his gaze in the mass of shadows, I smile at him to distract his train of thought, and Raffe smiles darkly back.

"Uh-huh. I heard her crying on the other end of the line – not sure what was going on, but whatever it was, it was traumatic." Hugo looks Bryon up and down. "Don't worry, bud, we'll have a nice little get-together soon enough, but she had to leave, had to attend her duties as her diplomat-ambassador thing and expose Uriel. We might run into her, who knows?"

"It's alright," Bryon soothes, eyes twinkling. "I'm not a complete lovesick puppy. I can handle myself."

"Lovesick…" My mother cocks her head, halting her rocking to and fro on her heels. "Lovesick puppy? War dog… war dog…"

"Of course," Hugo approves thoughtlessly, as if her words had utterly escaped his notice. "The last thing is that if the Horse gets within a fifty mile radius of the aerie, she threatened to take Pigeon-Bat by his scruff and throw him to the monster. So, in other words, we're going to need someone to fend him off if it draws near." He shoots a meaningful glance Bryon's direction.

Bryon groans gutturally, more in annoyance than actual reluctance. He kneads his palm into his forehead, wincing, as if the ghosts of scars long past inflicted ache once more. "Don't tell me," he mutters bitterly. "Don't tell me I have to not only fight with one of those things but keep it at bay, fend it off."

"Alright." Hugo stuffs his laptop in his duffel bag. "I won't tell you. I know it'll be difficult, but, need be, I'm sure Ogden will volunteer as reserved forces. Isn't that right, high and mighty?"

Ogden nods vigorously, his expression gentle as warm silk. Limping across the clearing to pat Bryon consolingly on the arm, he grunts affectionately, glowing with pride. It's as if I can feel the two of them communicating telepathically – as if their mental presences weigh down the air in some palpable sense.

"Thank you," Bryon murmurs gratefully. "I hope you know I'd do the same for you, any day."

Chuckling rambunctiously, Ogden claps his hand on Bryon's shoulder one last time before releasing it, his eyes twinkling as if the thought of Bryon returning whatever favor he'd offered is amusing. I get the sense of a grandson talking to his old, old man – they have nearly the same camaraderie, and, the more I think about it, the more sense it makes.

"Keep dreaming," Bryon laughs, rolling his eyes. "Now, Hugo, I see that you went ahead and packed up camp, despite my telling you that it was unnecessary. Care to explain why you're not letting everyone fill their daily beauty sleep quota?"

Hugo holds up his hands in surrender, ducking his head sheepishly. "Hey, don't look at me, I was on the phone. It sort of just happened around me."

"Hmm." Bryon raises his eyebrows skeptically, but doesn't press the matter further. "Well, now that we're all packed up, we might as well get this show on the road. Paige, hon, how are you holding up?"

"Fine, thanks for asking." She smiles sweetly at him, blinking with eyelashes nearly identical to his. I wonder how it'd taken me so long to spot the similarity.

"Any of those new muscles giving you fits?" Hospitality practically oozes from him. "Anything worthy of reporting? Did you sleep on a rock?"

Paige giggles, cupping a hand over her mouth. "I did, actually, but I'm fine. Really, Uncle, I'm okay."

"Alright, so long as you say so." Bryon's eyes roam over the mismatched group, grazing each and every one of our botched party until they find another suspect. "Belle? You alright?"

The adorable Nephilim yawns mightily, curling up around Scruffy's saddle horn. She mewls quietly, almost like a genteel goodnight. I could be imagining it or perhaps the darkness molds his expression into things it isn't, but Raffe seems to smile just as warmly at her as Bryon does.

"Just checking," Bryon chortles, shaking his head in amusement. "You, too, Scruffy?"

The wolf yips enthusiastically at the sound of his name, tail wagging ferociously and paws skittering excitedly about in a happy little dance. The wolf grins brightly, throwing his head up and down gleefully.

"And you, Raphael?"

Both of Raffe's eyebrows shoot up. "I'm after the monster and wolf? Seriously?"

* * *

_Why? _As the sun's first golden rays of light filter through the lacy curtains, patterning the ground with flowery designs, Audiat looks up at the unfinished painting she'd scrawled sloppily on her wall. _Why show me this?_

Despite her question being angled towards the rays of light, she hadn't expected an answer from the cruel, booming voice she knows all too well.

_Those who disobey must be punished. _

Without breathing a word in response, Audiat flings herself at the closest can of paint – it's a beautiful azure color, pure, undiluted, and nearly full. Staggering to her feet, she pitches the can of paint at the foreboding omen on the wall, covering up the sadistic art. When that can of paint is empty, she reaches for another one.

Audiat doesn't stop until there's not an inch of the dreadful painting showing.

* * *

**Just between you and me, Bryon's not spilling everything to Penryn. He knows a lot more than he's letting on.**

**Also between you and me? So does Belle. She might even know more. **

**Can't trust anyone with a "B" name, can you?**

**I'd like to send you lovely little readers a short apology for last chapter's poll, I wrote it really, really late at night, and I was at the stage where literally anything is funny and everything makes sense in some strange mangled way. Please forgive me – I beg it! **

**POLL: In apology of last chapter's confusing poll, let's go with something more laid-back… Scruffy, character analysis, go!**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	36. Chapter Thirty-Five

**Chapter Thirty Five**

"Hey, Penryn?" Raffe comes up beside me, his feet barely hissing at all as they skim over the brittle leaves. The dusky pink and gold light filtering through the shadow-dappled canopy sways over his face, the leafy patterns dancing with each brisk step we take. In the midst of the navy blue of his gaze, the light plants the smallest specks of gold swirling around his pupil like orbiting planets.

I could drown in those eyes. As I resist the temptation of merely staring awkwardly in response to his prompt, I find it increasingly difficult to ignore considering the dark, smoldering gaze he gives me – a good kind of smolder, of course; the kind of smolder that alights a roiling fire in the pit of my stomach.

Shaking my head to discard my rather scandalous line of thought, I refocus on him, hoping I don't seem too pathetic. "Yeah?"

"Do you want to join me on a short flight?" His wings arch upwards, catching the shafts of light on the snowy feathers and seemingly reflecting it back, making me wonder if his wings are encrusted with tiny diamonds. "I'm itching to get in the air."

"What, is being on the ground for a few more days really so tough?" I don't find it tough at all – each crisp breeze chilled by the frigid mountains brings a new wave of relief, coolly massaging my face. It sends shivers through the woods, causing the light to dance over the forest floor and the breeze to whisper a wordless song. The leaves I toss up with each step release a musty, woody scent into the air, one I've become accustomed to after all these days of only occasionally crossing a highway or skirting around a lonesome town.

Despite my contentedness, Raffe does not seem so pleased with being trapped beneath the tree branches crossing one another like bars of a cage. Grimacing, he sighs exasperatedly, "Yes, actually, it is. I was a good boy for ages as you lead us all over the countryside. I didn't complain. Do me a favor, thanks."

"You didn't complain?" I repeat, eyebrows shooting up. "I'm sorry, did I hear that right, or were my ears clogged?"

"I didn't complain _much_," Raffe amends, rolling his eyes.

My eyebrows rise a little higher.

Surrendering with a drawn-out sigh, Raffe tips back his head, staring wistfully at the blue sky above the trees, his eyes roving back and forth. I find myself staring just as wistfully at him, watching the sunlight cascade down his throat and halo his head, crowning him like the king he could very well be so very soon. My heart twists painfully in my chest, seeing him lust for the open skies – knowing that he's also lusting for other angels' company dampens my spirits slightly, but I suppose I can give him a non-angelic companion.

I elbow him gently. "Hey, I never said I wouldn't take you up on that offer. You just might want to let Bryon know before you whisk me off on a romantic flight for two, though. He might get touchy."

"Good point." He raises his voice slightly, his face that of someone trying to quell a grin. "You get all that, Scales?"

From higher up in our disjointed, lumpy line we travel in, Bryon lifts his fingers in an "okay" sort of gesture, glancing back once at me. I catch the glint of his bronze eyes reflecting the dawn's glow for a fraction of a second before it vanishes and his attention returns to Paige.

"Any more bases we need to cover?" Raffe questions, letting a brief glimpse of his beatific smile shine through his façade. "Or are you satisfied?"

"I'm pretty much good. Why? You have any passing remarks?"

"I think I'm good, too."

Raffe all but lunges at me, his arms wrapping tightly around my waist and his face burying in my hair. I throw my arms around his neck and clutch myself to his warm chest, resting my forehead onto his collar-bone and allowing him to rock me with each of his rapidly accelerating breaths. In the corners of my vision that Raffe's shadow doesn't protect, where light seeps in and invades my precious dark pocket, I see his wings unfold, tickling the lowermost leaves on the trees above.

"It'll be difficult to get in the air in a place like this," Raffe murmurs into my hair. "Bad wind, lots of hindrances, your deadweight – so just hold on."

"Actually, I was thinking of letting go…"

"Very funny." His voice is steeped with exasperation. "You can make as many bad jokes as you want, just keep holding on tightly, okay? I'm going."

Almost as if to forbid any other of my "bad jokes", Raffe takes to the sky half a second after his speech, leaving my stomach behind. He twirls between a gap in the trees and then leaves the foliage behind, immersing himself in blue.

The wind laps at my back and bubbles beneath my shirt, causing it to flap like a tarp caught in a storm. As we shoot upwards like a bullet from a gun, I find myself more aware of the way that my soft belly brushes his firm torso when our shirts flap together.

Burying all thoughts on the matter so similar to a more delicate topic, I tighten my grip on Raffe to vent my frustration – finally, I'd thought maybe Bryon's peaceful Nephilim Empire might be a way to get through to him, but now, we're further than ever, and by neither of our accords.

Rather, I realize, Lucius has trapped us, placed two rats once running together through the same maze into separate boxes with only one way out. I'm not sure if I'll meet him on the outside of my box, so I'm not even sure I'm going to try and leave. Not while he's still happy in his.

But even these thoughts I force from my brain, compelling myself to instead focus on the flex of Raffe's muscles, on the drumming of his heartbeat, and the rhythmic breaths he takes. I make myself train my thoughts on the wild whipping of my hair in the wind or the way my feet knock around in the air currents, occasionally slamming into Raffe's shins.

And, as Raffe tightens his hold on me, keeping his lips resting lifelessly at my forehead and his eyes gazing through my storm of hair, I can't help but wonder if he's doing the same.

* * *

"Will they be okay?" Watching her sister ascend through uncertain eyes, Paige whirls back to Bryon, seeking comfort in his limitless and steadfast knowledge. "They're coming back, right?"

"Of course," he soothes, smiling with his special uncle-smile, the one that makes Paige grin back. "They just need some time alone. If they're not back in a few hours' time, I'll go find those rascals and drag them back by their scruffs."

"Penryn said he was the Wrath of God." Paige lowers her voice. "How can you drag him anywhere?"

Bryon laughs melodically, tilting his head back. "It's just a title, Paige. Just because I'm the almighty Dragon King doesn't mean someone can't grab me by the scruff and drag me back to camp. Besides, your sister can kick his butt, and I think he knows that."

Paige beams. "She's so tough and strong. Really smart, too. I want to be just like her one day. Don't tell her that, okay?"

"Why not?" Bryon smiles, his expression seasoned with wisdom. "Every now and then, a bit of sibling adoration can be just perfect, especially if you're going through hard times. She might need that little spark every so often."

"I don't know…" Paige looks down at the rise and fall of her feet, biting her lip until it hurts. "Penryn always seems busy. I don't want to get in her way."

"Trust me, Paige." His eyes sparkle, suddenly becoming distant. "My brother saved my life once by simply smiling at me." He rubs at his wrist absentmindedly, as if remembering scars from the past. "You might not be able to understand now, but little things have the greatest impact."

"You're right," Paige huffs. "I don't understand. But… what was my dad like? As a kid, I mean?"

"Mischievous, but quiet mischievous, so you never knew he was up to something," Bryon lists almost ruefully, his gaze still one of a man caught in the past. "Clever, practical, even as a boy. He'd take apart the little toys he got and make something new with all the parts he'd collected. A genius, really, but always frightened of limelight."

Miserably, Paige hangs her head, looking down at the ground. "That sounds nothing like me."

"It doesn't, but that doesn't make it a bad thing." His elbow nudges her shoulder, a silent request for her gaze to meet his. "Are you saying now that you'd like to be a little troublemaker? No, you're better off as an original. Trust me, it's much more fun."

"So, what were you like as a child?" Paige's eyes grow round with curiosity. "You weren't always this wise, were you?"

"I wouldn't call it wisdom, even now," Bryon sighs, shaking his head slowly. "No, I'm many things, but wise is not one of them. I've just learned not to make the same mistakes again and again, a skill even a fool can acquire with enough time. And you wouldn't have recognized me in my younger days – always angry, always spiteful, always looking for someone to blame. You might've even been afraid of me."

"So you went through a rebellious teenager stage?" Cocking her head, Paige smirks, trying to mask it with an indifferent expression. "Penryn went through one of those, too. Dad called it a rebellious teenager stage. It sort of… just stopped, though, when he disappeared. Almost like he was the reason it was happening in the first place."

Empathy glows in Bryon's eyes, flashing with the bronze of his irises. "Penryn steps up to the plate when it's necessary, doesn't she? She takes charge if something needs to be done. She can lead. Good thing, too."

"Why?" Paige studies the sky above her, eyebrows furrowed. "Why is it good she can lead?"

"Because, like it or not, you're both pretty-pretty-princesses," pipes up Hugo from behind Paige, plodding up with Scruffy cheerfully waddling after him, licking at his master's extended hand with abandon. "And this guy basically rules alone. No matter what Audiat may say to the Nephilim or how she may think of them, if something were to happen to Bryon, she wouldn't maintain her rank as Queen. Not because of sexism, but because Nephilim honestly shouldn't be lead solely by an angel. It's the reason they didn't depend on the W-squared in the first place. So, that puts the older pretty-pretty-princess next in line for the throne."

"Assuming something is going to strike me down in my prime, yes," Bryon laughs, patting Scruffy on the forehead.

"Actually, there's quite a large debate going on discussing the topic of whether Penryn should be allowed to lead, since Audiat can't." Hugo smiles crookedly. "She was raised a human and she knows almost nothing about Nephilim and Nephilim ways. If something were to happen to you – if something were to strike you down in your 'prime' – she'd have a very tough time fending off both the chaos that would follow your death and making her way to the top of the food chain."

"Why?" Paige's heart burns defensively. "Penryn is a great leader! She'd do a good job!"

Hugo's indifferent gaze, cold and hard and powdered with coppery flecks, settles on Paige's, and she can't help but shrink back – fear of the strange, lanky teen hadn't plagued her as a creature, however now, the realization that he not only one of the cranky adolescents but also one of the powers in the world gone to hell inspires a small trill of fright in her brain each time their eyes meet. Even his personality puzzles her – he acts plenty goofy most of the time, so goofy that he really doesn't seem all that bad to approach, but there are other times when his temper flares white hot.

"I'm sure she would." There is no emotion in his voice, no infliction or care given. "But the fact remains: she's only a quarter Nephilim, and she shows none of the signature trademarks. You, at least, are so much like your uncle that maybe they'd let it slide. As it so happens, unless Penny dear is willing to step down, she's next in line."

"Can we quit talking about this? I'm not too keen on discussing my own death." Shooting Hugo a sharp glare, Bryon silences the boy. "There are more interesting topics to discuss."

"True," Hugo acknowledges, stroking down his wolf's nose, eyes flickering about. "Things like when the next mealtime is and what we're having for the next mealtime do rank more important in my book. After all, it's almost breakfast-lunch and we're all out of trail mix. We've got how many people to feed?"

"I think we've got some beef jerky somewhere." Bryon seems relatively unconcerned. "I ate last night, so I'm good until tomorrow night. Ogden, too, will be fine. Just send Scruffy out to catch something rather large and shoot anything you see. We'll roast it tonight."

"Kill creatures?" Paige whispers, her heart in her throat. "Like, rabbits and birds? And _eat_ them?"

"Yeah, like rabbits and birds, and yeah, we're eating them." Hugo takes Scruffy's head between his hands, resting their foreheads together. The two separate pairs of coppery eyes almost seem to belong to the same creature, reflected into both canine and human forms.

Voice cruel and commanding, Hugo barks, "Scruffy, _kill_."

* * *

As Raffe touches down on the uppermost branch of the pine tree, I feel myself stiffening skeptically in his arms. Maybe these flimsy branches are enough to hold his featherweight mass, but I doubt it'll support me for long. However, it doesn't stop Raffe from gently prying my body off of his and setting me down beside him, closer to the tree than him so I have something to hold onto.

"Raffe, pine doesn't hold up that well," I warn, gripping the trunk with both hands, getting sap all over my fingers. "And this is the top branch. Not the strongest of things."

"Penryn, trust me –" he glances at me with a dark glare in his eyes "– for once in your life. Besides, if you manage to fall, you'll hit a bunch of other limbs on your way down, so it's not like you'll snap your back on the slope."

"Snapping my back on the limbs is totally fine, though," I snarl, not releasing my trustworthy tree trunk.

"Here." One of Raffe's warm hands cup over mine on the tree trunk, and his powerfully muscled arm spans along mine. "Hold my hand. That way, if I'm wrong and we do topple, you get to drag me down, too."

"That is appealing," I acknowledge. Slowly, I peel my fingers off the coarse bark, slipping them into Raffe's gentle hand waiting patiently for their entrance. Grip tightening around my fingers, Raffe sets our tangled hands on the bark between us, rubbing at the back of my hand in a gesture of comfort.

"Your hand is sappy," he berates, shooting me a scalding glare. "When I offered you my hand, I didn't expect it to be a sticky mess."

"Boo-hoo, suck it up." I stick my tongue out at him. "We've both got enough dirt on us to fill a swimming pool."

"Yes, _dirt_, not gooey sap." Raffe's disgusted face is rather exaggerated. "I don't know why I hang around you, you're disgusting."

"Because of my sparkling personality?"

"No."

"Because of my stunning good looks?"

"Maybe."

"Ha!" I jab him in the side with my elbow. "The dam breaks! So you think I am good-looking!"

"You're a cute little monkey," Raffe decides, attempting to redeem some of his dignity. "I wouldn't go as far as good-looking, but adorable."

"Maybe if you keep telling yourself that, you'll start believing it!" I encourage in a saccharine tone of voice, smiling at him in a sickly sweet manner. "There's always tomorrow, right?"

Raffe rolls his eyes. "Shut up and lean on my shoulder already. Just be careful not to drool all over my shirt."

"It won't be hard." But I accept his offer, resting my cheek on his shoulder and closing my eyes. His scent drifts up from his clothes – it's not necessarily a good scent, after all the walking we've done with seldom a chance to bathe, but it's his, and I suppose that remedies the tangy stench of sweat. "Hey, Raffe?"

"Hmm?"

"Why'd you take me up here? Was it really just to give your wings a stretch?"

"It was partially because of the view." With the hand not twined with mine, he pans over our surroundings. "You don't get this from the ground."

And indeed you don't.

The evergreen he'd perched us on is the last before it drops into a magnificent yet sheer cliff. The sun is at our backs, casting a shadow over the forests of dark green conifers ans the occasion leafy tree slowly turning from emerald in color to ruby and gold and topaz. Still stained by the sunrise, the sky is a splash of pale pinks and vivid oranges, like an artist had spilled his paint over the beautiful clouds. Snow-capped mountains stand proudly in the distance, their icy slopes streaked with all the rich colors of the sunset.

I even find hidden majesty in the pronged needles of our pine – the dew that collects along the green bones of the tree had frozen overnight in the chilly weather, but now the sun's glorious face begins to melt them, its golden rays of light captured by the little crystals and flashing around like diamonds.

"It's really beautiful," I whisper, enthralled with the susurrus wind as it sweeps my hair over my shoulder, toying with it before rushing onwards to a new victim.

"I wish you could see it all," Raffe sighs, shaking his head. "Monkey eyes – how do you live? The mountains sparkle because of all the snow. It's really something you don't see every day."

"Where are we?" I wonder, scrunching my brow. "Those look like the Sierra Nevadas or Cascades or something. Have we really walked that far?"

"I'm not familiar with your names for things, or even with this part of the Earth, but it wouldn't surprise me that we've walked far enough. Your uncle keeps us at a brisk pace, and it's been a long time since we've been at any landmarks you'd really recognize. When was the last time we saw a street sign other than the occasional interstate number?"

"True," I acknowledge ruefully, nodding against him. "But, seriously, Raffe, why'd you take me out here?"

"Honestly?" He swings his legs like a child, eyes transported to a far off place as they skim the skyline. "I'd like to just talk to you. Alone. Nothing more. Your spunky-monkey personality was growing on me. I started to miss it with all of your uncle's seriousness." He pauses. "Also… I would like my sword back, thank you. I'll bet she's pretty eager."

"Another day and she'll hack my head off," I laugh, trying to stomach my nervousness – for his words had prompted a chilly flow of unease into my gut, and a reminder of things that'd happened after he'd handed his sword off to me; the memories of his memories and his thoughts invade my mind's eye, and I can only see Pooky Bear maliciously pouring all of my secrets into Raffe's head.

I almost jump as Raffe extends his hand to take her. Noticing my twitchiness, he misinterprets the movement and cups his outstretched offer around my hand.

"Don't worry," he husks, smiling tenderly at me, eyes soft. "Now that I know you're a trustworthy little chimp, I'll let you handle the big kid stuff more often. Besides, you won't be alone anymore. Whether it's me or your uncle, you'll always have somebody capable looking over your shoulder."

"I can handle myself." Ignoring his scoff, I unclasp Pooky Bear and hold the sheath in my hand for a few seconds, lifting my head from Raffe's shoulder to look reproachfully at the sword. If I could, I'd be scolding her, warning her not to step a toe out of line.

"Penryn?" Raffe sounds puzzled.

"Here." I hand him the sword, careful not to drop it. That'd be perfect – sending her tumbling down a cliff, getting her even more pissed at me.

Raffe's hand wraps over mine and gingerly, he removes Pooky Bear's burden. I realize after a second that I might miss the spunky sword, yelling directions at me and tugging me across the battlefield.

Raffe lifts Pooky Bear to the sky, grinning gleefully at her polished blade as it glints in the sun, shining brighter than a fresh copper penny. He laughs thunderously, a pure and joyful sound, almost like a child rejoicing in a lost toy being discovered again. The ecstatic sparkle in his eyes warms my heart.

"Would you believe it she actually sort of warmed up to you in the end?" Raffe chuckles, turning his gaze to me. "I guess we have more in common than I'd originally thought." His eyes flick towards the sword once again, a brief espy of her shining blade. "And now you're getting stolen away from her, too. Hmm."

"I seriously doubt that sword likes me," I grunt, raising both of my eyebrows at it. "She and I aren't exactly best of friends."

Raffe cocks his head and smirks – it begins as a smirk, anyway. His typical sort of smile, with upturned lips and facetious eyes turned nearly black with mischief and dark, sometimes scandalous motives. With agonizingly slow speed, the steely mystery crumbles in his gaze, becoming something softer, worn by both the grindstones of time and all its precious secrets.

"Of course," he almost _croons_, "she is eager to spill all of your private thoughts, but I'm not sure that's done out of ill-will."

With my cheeks burning like infernos, I look down, not caring much that I stare down the rocky plummet of a cliff. "I'm not so sure about that."

"There's a lot I find interesting," Raffe purrs, first slinging Pooky Bear over his shoulder, then reaching for my cheek with his freed hand, stroking his thumb over my cheekbone, "but there's something I feel like addressing immediately." His voice sharpens. "You were at the docks while I was hunting Beliel? Why didn't you call out? Or do something to get my attention? No, never mind, she's answering for you, and it makes sense, I guess."

"Sorry." I glare reproachfully at his sword. "I'd like to speak for myself, thanks."

After a moment of silence, Raffe chuckles, as if the sword had responded with something he finds amusing, but doesn't deem it wise to share.

Abruptly, Raffe sits straight, going rigid with tension. He releases my hand, instead gripping Pooky Bear's hilt tightly. Muscles in his body ripple and flex, as if testing their readiness for action. Alarmed by his sudden movement, I grasp the branch nervously, teetering on the limb terrifyingly.

"Angels," Raffe murmurs, his eyes trained on something I can't see. "That's bad. Very, very bad."

"What?" I lift my head, squinting in the direction he's focusing. "Are they on patrol? If we hide, they should just glide right over us, right?"

"No, I don't think so," Raffe growls, not even glancing my direction. "If Uriel knows I've got my wings back, it's likely he knows we're headed this way. The same mole probably whispered in his ears. If they hear loud enough breathing for an angel, they're going to check, going to make sure that it's just a deer, then kill the deer for good measure."

"Okay, so…," I shift my weight. "What do we do? Do we run?"

"What, get the entire choo-choo train on the move?" Raffe snorts rudely. "As if. We'd move at a fraction of their pace, even sprinting. No, I'll deal with it."

"What?" I stare with wide eyes at the angel group that now coasts into view, gliding in through a gap in the ridges like a flock of regal eagles. "Raffe, they're coming in fast –"

The branch jars as Raffe beats his wings to take to the sky without another word – his mind is probably either focused on a badass exit or the necessity presented by the oncoming angel group. I do not believe that he realized my warnings had not been in vain and that the branch beneath me was truly bending. I do not believe he was aware that the jolt his liftoff provided would also be the final jolt that the tree could handle.

Despite myself, I shriek as the branch gives way, a small outburst of terror. The sensation of falling only lasts seconds before my back cracks against one of the wooden branches. Another small, breathy cry escapes my lips, this one of pain. Desperately, I scrabble on the bark as I feel myself slipping, embracing the branch and praying it doesn't give out like the other one had.

My legs kick around helplessly, searching for support. Needles claw at my calves and thighs, their ice-tipped fangs nipping at my skin and leaving tiny pinpoints of tingling pain. The bark of the limb I hold so desperately scratches up the underside of my arms and sap gums beneath my fingernails as I peel the bark away. Christmassy pine stench invades my nose, making me cough and get chips of falling bark in my mouth.

"Penryn?" The branch I clutch to wobbles from a sudden dosage of extra weight, and a foot clothed in a scuffed sneaker almost sets down on my hand. "Are you alright? Anything broken?"

"Your neck will be if you don't get off my branch!" I snarl, glaring up at him with a face scrunched with fury. I poke futilely at his toes with one of my fingers, trying to get my message to him better.

As a stroke of luck, both of my feet first scrape up and down the trunk, shedding bark like woody rain, but they then come to rest at a knoll large enough to fit them both. If the branch breaks, I won't be able to support myself on it, but at least not all of my weight is resting on the meager stick.

"They're in a beeline in this direction," Raffe reports, disregarding my warning, perhaps even taking it as incentive that I'm alright. "Just hang in here, okay?"

"Is that supposed to be funny?" I bark at him, but he's already gone, sending the branch quaking. Growling in frustration, I swivel in my precarious placement to watch him.

It's not that I don't have faith in Raffe's skills – he's dispatched more foes than the dozen angels crying out with candid mixtures of recognition and bloodlust with ease. But I'm not sure I trust him to not get himself hurt again – after all, it'd been, what, five, six angelic bastards that'd beat him up when we'd first met? They'd been persistent and organized with their attacks, but who's to say these guys aren't?

Raffe flies out to meet them, as if trying to distract the angels from the helpless monkey stuck in a tree, but my heart hammers as a few angelic bastards evade his best efforts, swooping around his broad white wings and heading my direction. Roaring out a warning, Raffe whips his head around to watch for an agonizingly long period of time, allowing his set of opponents a few punches before he focuses again.

Realizing that I won't be out of the tree by the time the angels arrive, I glance hesitantly at the ground, contemplating throwing myself from my perch. I don't really like the idea, considering the rocky ground because of the cliff's edge and, of course, the looming cliff's edge, but I don't have much time to think about it.

I thrust myself as far away from the tree – and the cliff – as possible and hope for the best.

Though I try to tuck and roll on contact, but it doesn't quite work the way I wanted as I smack repeatedly into sticks, throwing off my balance. I land flat on my back and the air leaves my lungs, leaving me gasping for breath. It's only the angels that circle like vultures checking to be sure that I'm dead that pushes me up from the ground again, sucking in air difficultly.

My fingers wrestle with the hilt of the knife at my hip – a gift from Emilio, it's just sat at my waist until now, unused and overshadowed by Pooky Bear. But as I yank it from its soft leather sheathe, I realize Emilio knew what he was doing when he'd selected the blade.

"There's nothing like a high-quality European knife," he'd boasted. "The ones they import to this land are tainted by American values. This one is my favorite that I still have with me. Don't lose it."

As the first angel swoops towards me, his sword braced in both hands and ready for a downward strike, I fall to one knee, the knife raised protectively. His sword clangs against the broad of my knife, unable to pierce through my protection. It doesn't officially block his blow, and some of the crippling force he wields thunders down my arm, but most of the strength he'd put into the attack is deflected, sending his blade deep into the earth.

Skittering backwards and away from the pissed off angel, I back myself against the tree, studying the angels as they try to surround me – which would've been quite difficult if they hadn't had wings, as a normal person isn't able to just hover over the chasm of death at my back.

In the back of my mind, a little voice praises Emilio's advice – with a quick glance down towards the shiny knife, I realize that it'd withstood remarkably well against the angel sword, only bearing one scratch down the flat of the blade. I grin, ready to see if it holds up as well as Emilio had claimed it could.

I don't get a chance to try it out, not really.

In unison, all the angels bellow with anguish. They clasp their hands to their heads, clawing at their ears and scratching at their temples, either drifting downwards with wings extended to slow their fall or plummeting like stones. Some yell in pain all the way down the cliff. One of mine rolls down the hill towards me, growing tantalizingly close to the edge – in fact, it's the one that'd attacked me, and his sword is still buried deep in the earth. Though puzzled, I don't waste the opportunity to send him tumbling down the cliff with a solid kick in the back.

_You're lucky I was here, watching over you. How have you survived this far, even I don't know._

Bewildered, Raffe meets my gaze, as if I have some answer for the eerie childlike voice. Shrugging, I turn around, searching for the source as well.

_The wanderer is on his way over here. Doesn't trust me, that one; it's grown irritating. He probably heard the mental blast I produced to drive those angels mad despite my best efforts. Wherever she is, the madwoman must also be aching – the madwoman cloaked in the pelt of the wolf, that is. _

"Who are you?" Raffe shouts over the wailing angels, his voice echoing off the mountains. "Where are you?"

_You know me, dearest Wrath. Look closer. I am where you were resting mere minutes before this precious point in time. _

My head snaps up so that I'm staring into a pair of adorable blue and bronze eyes at the top of the pine tree we'd been perched, sitting on the very highest stalk like an eerie Christmas star. Belle squeals once, half splaying her wings to the sky.

_I hope I haven't disturbed either one of you. _She grooms her paws, nibbling between the tiny bronze claws. _I didn't mean too. But the facts are that if either one of you had gotten injured in your little melee, we would've had to slow our pace even further and delay again. Penryn dearest already is covered head to toe with scratches. Let's not increase that. _

"I didn't know you could speak telepathically," I murmur, watching her as she plucks out mouthfuls of feathers and lets them float with the wind, preening through her calico wings.

_Nor did I. The world is full of surprises. But you two must return – we are all going our separate ways, it would seem. The undesired are being shunted home and the warriors are continuing their brazen march. _She races down the tree like a scaled swirl, zigzagging over the ground then twirling up my leg, my body, and down my arm until she rests on the hand I grip my knife with.

_Come now, Penryn dearest. _She blinks innocently with long, long eyelashes, releasing a short, cajoling whistle. _We can't leave the angels here. I won't keep up the mental damage forever. A simple stab in the chest will suffice, I believe, since they'll just bleed out._

* * *

"Scruffy!" Paige hears the teenager cry in dismay. "What is this? What is this supposed to be?"

She lifts her head over the novel Bryon had brought for her, watching the one-sided argument with amusement. The wolf is covered in brambles and thistles that gum up his fur, and sticky, clumping mud splashes up to his belly. In his mouth, though, is a small bouquet of golden flowers, as if he'd snapped their stalks himself and carted them all the way home.

The flowers are different than they normally are – instead of a typical yellow pallor, the petals seem downright golden, metallic and scintillating. Drifting from the elegant pistils are glowing specks of pollen, luminescent even in the bright light. Paige's mouth rounds in an O of awe.

"What are these?" Hugo demands, ripping one from Scruffy's jaws to study it. "What is this supposed to mean? In what way is this catching food?" He laughs, tossing back his head and playfully hitting the wolf on the nose with the blossom. "You funny little thing. Now, go back and get us some actual meat, or else we're going hungry tonight."

* * *

**Told you Belle knew more than she was letting on. **

**Bryon, too. **

**Are some of you on vacation? I feel so lonely… but if it's the case, I hope you're having fun!**

**POLL: This poll would've gone better with last chapter, but I had to apologize. This chapter's poll is more of a thought I'd like to hear some opinions on. Bryon and Paige are both "chosen" and whatnot by the White Wolf, correct? Do the similarities end there? Or do the gentle giant and the sweet little lamb have more in common?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	37. Chapter Thirty-Six

**Chapter Thirty Six**

"You're _what_?"

Even though it'd been me who Raffe had been addressing, whispering quietly as possible in my ear, it's Bryon who reacts first, rising so abruptly from the little A-frame of twigs he'd been coaxing into a blazing fire that embers shoot up through the air, circling him like fairies.

"It seems you've already heard me." Raffe crosses his arms over his chest, his lip curling with disgust. "Why repeat it?"

"So people like Ogden and I know what the hell's going on," Hugo calls from where he'd been shuffling through packs alongside the gentle giant. Cocking an eyebrow, he watches both angry males with a fascinated gleam glittering in his coppery eyes, but then scowls angrily.

"If the two of you start fist fighting, or any other kind of fighting besides verbal, I will call my bae, Bay," Hugo threatens, not placing an inkling of emphasis on his little wordplay, despite the ephemeral twinkle in his eyes.

"It will never get that far," Bryon growls, stepping over the fire. His cloak dances over the embers, brushing over the hot coals and grey soot alike, but nothing stains its immaculate length of silky brown fabric. "But what are you planning on doing, Raphael? Did I hear you wrong?" Bryon draws almost uncomfortably close, glaring furiously at Raffe. "Or did I hear right?"

"Did you hear that I'm planning on splitting off from the Tortoise Brigade?" Raffe asks calmly. "Because, if so, that's exactly what I'm going to do."

"At last!" Hugo sighs blissfully at the same moment Bryon growls in a low, icy voice, "In what world is that a good idea?"

"In the world of me trying to keep this Tortoise Brigade safe." Casually, Raffe's hand goes to his sword's hilt by his side, rubbing over the end tip in a silent warning. "Everything is out to get me, let's face it. If I'm away from all of you groundwalkers, then so is everything hunting me. So, it's better off this way."

"It most certainly isn't!" Bryon bellows, eyes without their usual bronze shimmer, instead almost black in color, with no boundary between pupil and iris. His hands adjust their grip on the staff so it almost seems like a dangerous weapon instead of an innocuous walking stick. "Haven't you ever heard of 'safety in numbers'? You angels live and breathe that teaching!"

"Which is why I'm trying to get back to more angels!" Raffe barks, sword sliding halfway out of her scabbard. I inch backwards, both stunned by Raffe's brisk decision and Bryon's sudden outburst of rage, willing to escape the sparks of their butting heads. Noticing my meager retreat with a fleeting flash of his blue eyes, Raffe breathes in deeply, curbing his temper only slightly.

Coolly, he adds, "I'm not sure why you care, Scales. You're taking off as well, going on a hunt of your own. Why should it matter that I'm taking the lonely road as well?"

"I am accustomed to being alone." Bryon shakes his head minutely, his gaze so intense, so saturated with ghosts of past bloody days I feel myself unwilling to glance anywhere near his eyes. "I've been alone for centuries, walking forbidden lands where no one but mountain lions and bears dwelled, not seeing a single face for years. I know how to handle myself, and I know how to handle the silence. You, however, do not. By my side, you're a bad idea. On your own, you're a loose cannon, Raphael. And loneliness can corrupt even the best of people, never mind the ones hovering on the edge of being something horrifyingly awful."

"Big words." Raffe's scowl darkens. "How scary. Every time I came here to hunt, I came alone, and, as far as I can tell, I'm still fit as a fiddle."

Hugo coughs, raising his hand from the edge of the clearing. "Pardon me if I'm wrong, but, Birdy-Bat, I don't think using the times you descended and slaughtered all of Bryon's brethren is a good example. Just saying." He screws up his face and makes a clicking sound with his tongue. "You might want to work on the arguing tactic there."

"What I'm saying is that the sooner I get to the she-aerie, the sooner I can figure all of this out." Breathing in deeply to assuage his raging temper, Raffe glares around at the half-circle of spectators hostilely until his gaze lands on me and grows marginally softer. "The sooner I figure all of this out, the sooner all of you will be safe and cozy."

"Do you think a warrior always has to be pyrrhic in each battle he fights to be successful? It doesn't work like that, Raphael," Bryon growls, voice quiet and foreboding.

"Yes, it does," Hugo dismisses, waving his hand rudely. "I know, I know, you're older and wiser than me, but it doesn't take a genius to show that you're not convincing him to go against his plan, and that won't change if you spout morals. On that note, Pigeon-Bat, come this way and I will loot you up with mortal supplies."

Hugo turns on heel and stalks towards Scruffy, not once glancing back at the turmoil he'd caused. Perhaps it is a wise thing to do, walking away after mangling an already brutal fight like that, after screwing over the only one I've ever seen defending Hugo no matter the personal consequence. Or perhaps it is a fool's move, betraying a guardian and then turning his back on them.

"Why is it still Pigeon-Bat?" Striding past Bryon without wasting the opportunity to glare lividly at my uncle, Raffe tails Hugo, following him to the elated Scruffy. "I don't have those wings anymore. If it's anything, it's Pigeon."

"No, it's Pigeon-Bat." Hugo burrows in Scruffy's packs for a few seconds. "It makes sense if you think about it."

Bryon ambles my direction, his gaze regaining some of its lustrous qualities, but still maintaining the dark smolder beneath all the concern. "Penryn?" he questions softly, cloak fluttering around his feet. "You look shaken up. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." I smile at him, shaking the shocked thoughts off with a full-body shiver. "Just… didn't expect that. Not just yet."

"It's hard, losing someone you care about," Bryon empathizes, his expression soft. "Hard when they're the one to walk away, they're the one to tell you that they're through. This entire imbroglio must be hard. But I wouldn't worry too much. We're going to see him again, Penryn. There's a reason he hasn't gone his separate way before now."

"Yeah, I suppose." I smile weakly at the ground. "It's not like I'm giving up hope on ever seeing him again, though. I mean, I've always expected this – it's been his plan since the start. But after all this time, it's a bit of a shock. Especially with you, Mom, Paige, even freaking Belle going too. Not that," I add hastily, "I mind you tucking away my family from danger, protecting them from the crossfire with buff bodyguards. In fact, couldn't be happier. It's just… with Ogden escorting them and then joining you on your little crusade against the Horse, it feels like everybody's leaving, all at once."

"Nobody's leaving, Penryn," Bryon soothes, eyes twinkling as if I'd said something he finds mildly amusing. "No one in their right mind would leave you forever. No, we're just taking a short break, and allowing you to continue the next chapter in your grand adventure by yourself. If you ever get lonely with only Chuckles and Furball as companions, you can always call me." He lifts up his cell phone, emphasizing it with a shake. "Raffe and I will always be on hand. When your mother and Paige reach Secrem Domu, they'll be equipped with these cellular phones as well. We're all only a call away."

"I might be abusing that privilege," I admit ruefully. "I'm glad that Pepper showed up to help Mom and Paige back. I can't see them backpacking through the wilderness. At least now, Ogden can use his wing things and they can fly on the wolf."

"Ah, yes, Pepper." Bryon's gaze shifts to where the grey wolf stands rock-steady as Ogden packs him up and my mom strokes his nose and babbles. "I've always found it funny how one kind gesture can quickly lead to another. He's taken to your mother quite well. I trust that wolf to keep your family safe as if it were his own."

I study the grizzled wolf as he swivels his head around to stare at Paige as she brushes through a bramble caught in his pelt with Hugo's wolf brush. "He seems to be at ease with them."

"Yes, he does," Bryon agrees, nodding to himself. "I hope he's as steady a flier as Rumbbaa, because Paige wants to finish the book I brought her before she reaches Secrem Domu. I don't think that's quite possible, seeing as she's still tripping over chapter one."

"Yeah, why'd you get her a book like that?" I turn to him, brow furrowed. "I mean, Percy Jackson is appropriate for kids and all, but she's still really young."

"Pickings were slim, and there wasn't much in English to choose from at the Seraphim library," Bryon sighs apologetically. "I didn't want to bring history textbooks. Look at her, she loves it."

"She does," I concede. Watching them at this distance, I can hardly tell the difference between my family and a normal, happy one. Mom fondles Pepper's ears and coos irrational things to him, just as any mother would with a beloved family pet. Paige brushes out his fur, massaging his back as she does it and preening through his feathers. I can't see a botched, broken family as they fuss over Pepper – only one preparing for a happy vacation.

"They'll be fine, Penryn. Don't worry about them." Bryon tilts his head to one side. "If you want my advice, go socialize with Raffe while still you can. Critique his choices on what to bring and scold him to death for eavesdropping." Bryon shoots a glance over his shoulder. "He knows he's doing it."

"Most of us aren't eavesdroppers," Raffe calls from across the clearing.

"Right, most people aren't," Bryon calls back, "but we happen to be."

"Break it up!" I shout, patting Bryon awkwardly twice on the arm as I whisk past him, marching across the clearing to stand beside Hugo as the boy showcases his doodads to Raffe.

"Penryn, lovely to see you on this side of the clearing," he greets with a flourish of a hand. His eyes flutter erratically over the numbered pockets of the backpack resting on Scruffy's shoulders, and his hands check each and every nook in its siding for what he's searching for. A low, nonsensical mumble drones from his mouth as he rifles through slots and cupholders, until he holds up a bottle of pills in a green plastic container, and grunts triumphantly.

"You're giving Raffe drugs?" I nearly shout, mouth falling open.

"Of course not," Hugo scolds, glaring belittlingly at me as he lifts the bottle and rattles it. "Why would you think so little of me? No, these little babies are actually machines. They're still prototypes, so there's nothing else like it in the world. Basically, they look like pills, and you take them a lot like pills, but they're not pills."

"Thanks for clearing that up." Raffe rolls his eyes skeptically. "So, technologic drugs, then? Great."

"They're not drugs!" Hugo shakes the bottle irately. "What they do is they're supposed to lodge in your throat right around the vocal chord area, and amplify all the sound that comes out of your mouth. Like a microphone, except ten times as powerful. Not even kidding. With this, you're like God talking. Your voice will echo over the mountains. It's wicked. Prototype of your dad's, actually, Penryn" – he tosses me the bottle – "but, due to unfortunate events, he left behind all of his magicy wagicy stuff and got married. Go, love."

"How are these going to help me in any way?" Raffe wonders, shaking his head incredulously. "They're absolutely useless. The most useless things yet."

"Oooo." Excitement spreads the corners of Hugo's lips back in a gleeful grin. "Was that foreshadowing? I do believe that was foreshadowing. In that case, definitely take these, you're going to need them."

He nabs the bottle from my hands and shoves them towards Raffe, forcing the angel to take them more than anything else.

"Okay, well, I think that's pretty much got us." Hugo feels around his backpack one last time, but comes back empty-handed, shrugging. "I've got nothing other than some oil for your feathers, but that'll just weigh you down. Now, have a sweet Raffryn farewell, will you? Bryon's already slinked off without a goodbye, that bastard –"

"He's pissing," Raffe corrects, sighing heavily.

"Oh, alright." Hugo seems crestfallen for some reason. "Okay. Well, I'll just leave you to it."

"Thank you," Raffe groans as Hugo slouches away, with Scruffy sniffing inquisitively at his shoulders behind him.

"Don't be so harsh with him," I chastise, staring after Hugo. "He's just trying to help in some weird, roundabout way. It's Hugo-logic."

"If you say so," Raffe murmurs, shaking his head dubiously. "Penryn, look, I didn't know your uncle would react that way. I meant to tell you up at the cliff, all alone, but we were rudely interrupted."

"It's alright." I wave my hand dismissively, trying to fight back the desolation eating at my heart. "You're forgiven. But don't you fight with him again, 'kay? It was excusable that once. It won't be next time."

"Understood, ma'am." Though mirth shines in his gaze, I can sense the same sort of forlorn dread in him that's slowly encasing my heart. "You take care of yourself, you hear? Nothing stupid, like last time. If you do end up doing something stupid, call, and I'll clean up after you, alright?"

"I should be telling you this," I scold, shaking my head. "That sword is a bad luck talisman, and she's in your hands now."

"How will she ever like you if you go around saying things like that?" Raffe hisses, stroking the hilt of the sword that'd once been Pooky Bear affectionately.

"She'll live," I laugh, "and so will you. But keep that feathery ass out of trouble. Don't let yourself get killed before you even get a shot at this Messenger thing."

"And you before you elevate to the rank of Evil Queen."

"Nephilim Queen," I correct, arching my brow.

"Same thing."

The ache in my heart has grown unbearably heavy, and, if it hadn't been connected to pillars like arteries and veins, all depending on its rhythmic pulse, I'm almost certain it would've grown too heavy and shattered against the floor. We may see each other again, Raffe and I, but I begin to realize that the moment on the cliff was perhaps our last moment with all barriers cast aside, and this our last as anything more than allies. I don't know why this is certain to me, and I don't know why it has to be so, but I know it just is. Drinking in the deep blue of his eyes, I find myself wondering if maybe, just maybe, they're a tad lighter in shading than they had been before, during less momentous times.

I swallow with difficulty around the lump in my throat. "So… this is goodbye?"

Very, very slowly, swallowing as well, Raffe nods. "This is goodbye." His lips twitch in a pathetic attempt at a smile. "For now, at least. I'll see you again."

"Right. It's just… a goodbye for now. That's what it is."

"Exactly," Raffe agrees, cautiously stepping towards me, half-raising a hand. I cross the rest of the distance, throwing my arms around his neck and squeezing him as tightly as I can. The angel doesn't really seem to mind, leaning against me as much as I lean against him.

Lowering his lips to my ear for only the two of us to hear, Raffe whispers, "You will not be the devil's bride for as long as my heart is still pounding, my lungs still pumping. I won't allow it. So you've got absolutely nothing to fear from him, or me leaving you all alone with him."

"Thank you, Raffe, my Knight in Feathered Armor," I croak, hugging him tighter and nearly choking him, "but you've got to be Raphael again eventually."

* * *

"What are you mumbling about, darling?" Thea lifts her arm, staring into the mismatched eyes of the little dragon that'd been dispatched, handed into her tender care. "Are you singing? To be perfectly honest, I was not aware Nephilim had acute enough vocal chords to sing."

Uttering not verbal words but rather a low, melodic keen, Belle corrects her, grinning escatically. Throwing her head up with a triumphant whistle, the little creature bounces up and down excitedly, as if she can't wait to share her talents.

"Can she sing?" Daisy looks questioningly to Thea. "Bryon said she was five-eighths – that's never happened before, we don't know what her genetic compound is like. And Bryon can talk when he's scaly. For all we know, she could sing."

Making popping noises, Belle smiles slyly, twining up Thea's arm and wrapping like an exotic necklace around her throat, settling her head in the concave created by the jugular vein, her horns brushing against tender skin. And, as the dragon tickles her with tiny claws that brush through her hair and toy with the braid it had been bound into, Thea knows that, whatever secrets the child may hold in her talons, guarded from all by her lack of a voice to analyze, she will not give them up easily.

* * *

It's not as lonely as I had expected with Hugo, clumped around the campfire Bryon had built earlier this evening, but I must admit that I do miss Belle testing how long she could sit on the scalding embers before squealing in pain as they burned through her scales, jumping into Bryon's arms. It'd been funny, how he'd never gotten tired of getting burned by her smoldering scales.

Hugo strums on his guitar, testing out notes and chords. He'd been teaching me all of Bryon's favorites from the _Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron_ soundtrack and singing along with them in pitiful vocal agony, but Scruffy had tried to gain his master's attention, first licking up and down Hugo's arm – which he'd successfully ignored – then all over his fingers and consequently the guitar strings, throwing the instrument's tuning out of whack.

"Don't look at me like that," Hugo scolds, punching Scruffy in the nose and causing the wolf to yip in hurt. "You were the one that did this. Why don't you go run around and pee on trees like normal dogs? Why are you so cuddly?"

Scruffy worms his head beneath the guitar, his chin resting in Hugo's lap. Panting excitedly, he gazes up at Hugo, mouth open and slobbering all over his pants, tail thumping audibly against the ground. Groaning, Hugo brings the guitar down on the wolf's head, but Scruffy doesn't seem to mind – in fact, the thumping of his tail grows only louder.

"You are such a pest," Hugo snarls, shoving Scruffy's muzzle away. "Go find someone else to bother."

"I think I'm going to go take a walk," I announce, deciding I need a minute to clear my head. Standing, I question, "About where are my boundaries, so we don't repeat the cherub bathroom incident?"

"Uh, well, Scruffy's been trained to do something funny when it's just up to me, and there's no Bryon dictating everything." Hugo shoves the wolf's muzzle away, scowling at him in irritation. "He's officially protecting one hundred fifty yards in all directions, but if you go past that invisible line, he'll accompany you as a big furry bodyguard for another two hundred. If you try to pass two hundred, he'll herd you back."

"Okay." Rubbing Scruffy's head as I pass, I walk towards the edge of the dark, foreboding woods, clicking on my flashlight as I do so. "If you see this wildly flashing around, I've probably run into trouble. So just keep an eye out."

"That's this guy's job." Hugo pushes Scruffy away as best he can. "But be careful – we're pretty close to the road, and people are still fleeing from these angelic bastards. We've got absolutely no idea what sort of nutcases are still strewn over the roads. Be very, very careful."

"Got it."

And so I plunge myself into the shadows, allowing darkness's chilled yet gentle embrace to blanket me. The cold, cold wind welcomes me into the woods the moment I leave the clearing heated by the fire's crackling light behind, hissing softly in my ears and whisking my hair about. Though the shaft of light provided by the weak flashlight does comfort me more than absolute darkness, the moving shadows in the corners of my eyes created by the shaking beam unnerve me perhaps more than the blackened night had.

Glancing once back at the smoldering embers and the thin plume of smoke it releases into the air, I swallow, wondering if I should rethink my decision and head back. But Scruffy protects this land, and, although the goofball really is nothing to fear, people don't know that, and people will flee at the sight of the big, bad wolf.

So I continue, tromping onwards. The forest ground here is matted with brambles and thorns and snagging brush. A stray thought crosses my mind, a silent plea for a pair of jeans to keep the sharp edges of various plants from slicing into my legs.

Perhaps they are the trying to keep me in the present with the jab of thorns into my calves, those thorns. Perhaps they attempt to keep me wary of danger as I lapse into my mind and all of its abstract abysses, all of its bizarre concepts, submerging into the maze of dreams and ideas that makes up a human brain. Perhaps the thorns only try to keep me awake as opposed to being a zombie on my feet.

Something moves in the dark, and I feel every bone in my body go rigid. I freeze, shining my flashlight to where I'd thought I'd seen the movement, only to find nothing there at all. Had it been a creature, like a rabbit or a squirrel, dashing madly through the undergrowth? It'd seemed so much larger… and absolutely silent. What sort of squirrel is quiet?

As I ponder upon how a brash squirrel could stealth through the woods, I notice another anomaly – nothing else seems to make any noise, either. No bugs sing to one another, no owls croon to the stars, no rodents scuttle over the dry leaves. It makes the most terrible sounds louder in the still night – the sounds of bones snapping just outside my vision, of a human growling with lips not meant to be so feral, and of flesh being yanked from a body.

Beginning to grow nervous, I find the more familiar trail of smoke in the sky, and calculate the distance between us. I could make it back in a heartbeat if I sprinted – it wouldn't be all too difficult. For some reason, I have a feeling that strange, carnivorous sounds should be reported, but I can't make myself do it. My legs are locked.

The sound of ripping flesh distracts me from the tantalizing whims of the fireside gang. My skin crawls as if worms are writhing beneath its surface. I haven't yet passed the border of one hundred fifty yards, where nothing else is allowed to cross, or else Scruffy would be by my side. Something tells me that the source of this tearing is located snugly on the other side of that invisible line.

Scruffy pads from the trees, eerily quiet. He makes no noise, doesn't truly greet me, even. The wolf looks surprisingly menacing as he trots past me, disappearing back into the shadows before I get a chance to register his presence properly. A surge of fear pulses with a single beat of my heart, and I find myself tailing him, if only to keep with something familiar in the sea of unknown. I click off my flashlight, sticking it in my pocket, and allow Scruffy to navigate for me.

Laying my hand on his rugged coat of fur, I find comfort in his warmth. My other hand flies to Emilio's knife, which slowly, inch by inch, I free from its leather restraints. Winking cruelly in the moonlight at me, it almost seems gleeful to be released from its scabbard, breathing the air once more – or perhaps I've spent too much time with Pooky Bear.

The closer I draw to the awful growls and snarls, the more certain I am that they're human. No animal I know can issue such grotesque noises, nor would any have a desire to rip apart another creature as this human is evidently doing. Pitching wildly, my stomach isn't pleased by my decision to keep an open mind – perhaps it's a starving traveler, one nearly killed by hunger that'd finally found something to sink its teeth into. Maybe it isn't madness that drives its limbs and its teeth – maybe it's desperation.

This naïve theory is difficult to maintain as a guttural laugh rings through the forest, gurgling and nasty. I shake off mental images of a man cackling with blood dripping from his mouth.

Scruffy pauses when the noises are unbearably close. It surprises me that I can be so close to the person making such a ruckus – I'd have thought that they'd noticed my failed attempt to approach without a twig broken. We can't be more than ten feet away from the bastard, and he's still utterly oblivious. Maybe he's deaf. Or maybe he doesn't care.

I sidle up net to Scruffy, peering through the same bush as him but on a slightly intersection of branches. Clapping a hand to my mouth to silence myself, I bite down on my tongue, not allowing my gasp of horror to escape. I've seen worse, after all. By now, the lengths humanity would go to in order to survive shouldn't come as a surprise.

It always does, though.

As it happens, my naïve theory and the more likely madness that'd driven the man are some gruesome concoction, the likes of which I hadn't even pictured – the hunched figure of a greying middle-aged man rips into the corpses of an entire family strewn about the clearing.

Shoveling raw organs into his mouth, he eats with abandon from the father's ribcage, tearing out slices of his skin and cramming it down his throat. Sniveling with silent laughter, he turns to the mother after downing a mouthful of kidney and spits blood over her dead face. Judging by the red speckles already staining her ashen expression, I don't believe this was the first time this happened.

Swallowing down my nausea, I shuffle backwards, unwilling to draw any closer. But before I can make a mad dash back to the campfire, the rumble of an engine distracts me, and the single beam of a single headlight thunders over a hill on the road not even fifty whole feet from where the cannibal rips into the flesh. It screeches to a halt before the bodies, a scene that must be visible from the side of the road, and two voices with rich southern accents call out to one another quickly following the creak of opening car doors.

"Oh, _shit_, man!" a male voice cries from the general direction of the road. "Oh, shit! Oh, shit!"

"What're you talking about, dumbass?" sneers another one with a nasally voice. "Why'd you stop the car? What – oh, _shit_."

I can hear the cannibal lift his head, abandoning the corpse in front of him to stagger to his feet and stumble drunkenly towards the other men. Seeing the hostile approach the innocent people, Scruffy growls thunderously, his pearly whites glistening in the car's headlight.

The wolf pounces, jumping clean over the bush I'd been cowering behind. Terrible, savage roars thunder from the wolf's lungs, more beastlike than I'd ever heard him sound. He lands with a heavy thump, his front paw accidentally striking through the belly of a little girl who'd had her insides eaten before we stumbled upon the scene – shaking the paw daintily, he growls at it, as if disgusted, before refocusing on the problem at hand.

I turn Emilio's knife over in my hands anxiously, not certain if I should join in on the action and get in Scruffy's way.

"What the hell is that thing?" screams one, his cry swiftly followed by the click of a loading gun. "What's it want with us? Why's it growlin' at Pa?"

"It's Hell!" bellows the other, shooting forward to drape the cannibal's arm over his shoulder. "It's Hell, Jimmy, coming for Pa! Don't let it get him! Kill the damn demon!"

The chorus of a gun pierces the still night, and the wet thunks of bullets burying in flesh. Howling in agony, Scruffy stumbles backwards, his legs giving out. My heart pulls, and suddenly, my dilemma is made very clear.

Yelling furiously, I charge the shooter with Emilio's knife in hand, positioning the little blade to stab through his ribs. As I do so, the other, nasally-voiced man takes on Scruffy, grabbing a log and slamming it into Scruffy's nose with a crack that rings in my ears. Scruffy wails in pain as blood gushes from his nostrils.

The man I charge notices me slightly too late – I kick his feet out from under him, sending his bullets spraying erratically through the air, endangering us all. Growling, I pounce on top of him, pinning his legs beneath mine and using my free hand to hold his gun down to the ground where it can't hurt anything but the violated corpses.

At last, the man comes to his sense with a burst of understanding in his eyes, and the brawl first begins.

"There's two!" he shouts, free hand shooting up to grab my knife arm's wrist, strangling it mercilessly, not allowing the razor sharp blade to descend any more than I have it lowered. "The demon and his hellbitch!"

"That's ironic," I snarl, spitting down at him with effort, "considering you're the one with the cannibal for a father figure."

I realize after a moment that grappling on the ground for power like this isn't going to get me anywhere. Though surprise had allowed me to temporarily overpower the man, I can tell that he's much stronger than I, and any physical battle will most surely be lost. So, slamming my knee into his groin mercilessly, causing him to whimper in pain, I wrench my hand free and shoot up from him.

Readjusting my grip on Emilio's knife, I find myself frustrated that I still haven't put it to proper use. As the man rises, beady eyes glinting dangerously from a squat, bearded face, I grin broadly, realizing that it won't be long at all.

The man's expression flickers. Maybe the fact that I'm beaming as we circle one another is scaring him into believing I'm crazy. Maybe he's right.

Before we meet again, more gunshots ring out in the night, this time fired from the other man's gun at Scruffy. My attention briefly drawn to him, I notice that he's fighting the cannibal just as hard as I'm fighting this man – the predator doesn't want to leave its food behind for the scavengers, evidently.

"Pretty girlie, why'd you and your mutt have to get into this?" the man circling me sighs, looking genuinely sad as he reloads his gun. "Why couldn't ye have just kept your noses in your own business? I can't let you go and blab this to everyone. I can't have a witch-hunt for my pa. If it were up to me, I'd do it, I'd set you free, but it ain't."

Roaring furiously, Scruffy rears up on his hindlegs behind the _gentleman_ and slams his paws back down on his back, crushing the overgrown farmboy beneath his weight. Blood waterfalls from the wolf's nose and mouth, hindering his breathing slightly – crimson liquid splutters with each pant he takes, trickling down and onto the man's back.

The pinned man rips free from underneath the wolf's paws and whirls onto his back, gun braced in both hands. He shoots up at Scruffy with a perfect angle to hit his heart, neck, and brain, but whether each sharp _bang_ causes Scruffy to merely flinch or if the bullets hit their mark, I am not certain.

I lunge for him and drive my knife between his ribs, caring not that the gun he shoots now pinwheels wildly, strafing poor Scruffy. Snarling, I wiggle the embedded blade back and forth, just for the fun of it, before wrenching the knife free, stabbing him once more on the opposite side of the chest, and then staggering backwards, leaving the man to Scruffy's mercy.

But Scruffy doesn't attack.

He doesn't snarl or growl.

He groans in anguish, and his back legs give out.

I scream, and, in that instant, as Scruffy collapses on top of the man, the other person grunts behind me. Something hard swings into the back of my head like a baseball bat.

My vision goes dark as Scruffy rolls his eyes shut.

* * *

**Twice, I have failed you with nonsensical polls. **

**No longer, I say!**

**No longer!**

**Thanks to a review – much appreciation, Anonymous – the second was caught early on, but it still causes quite a bout of embarrassment. I shall check over my polls from now on, I swear to you. On that note, if you see any errors in the text that I may have missed, one as blatantly obvious as the poll, please, point them out. I try my best to type, reread, edit, and submit all my chapters as quickly as possible – that means I miss some typos. It'd be appreciated if you helped me remedy those mistakes for the benefit of future readers!**

**Now that I'm finished with that grisly business, I'm free to admit how excited I am that we're finally reaching the time of the she-aerie and the Horse. I try to keep my interaction with all of you polite and professional, which is why I fangirl with such large and complicated words, but know that behind this sophisticated speech, there is much blubbering and absurd words. **

**POLL: So, Penryn's dad's voice pills. Thoughts?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	38. Chapter Thirty-Seven

**Chapter Thirty Seven**

Scruffy's tail wags languidly, dragged back and forth over the flattened brush, almost seeming like a promise, a promise that, no matter how terrible his injuries, he won't be giving in anytime soon, despite his darkening vision and the slowing beat of his big wolf heart.

Hugo's hand trembles violently as he in vain attempts to hold the phone steady against his ear, barely hearing its shrill ring over the labored breathing of the mutt cradled in his lap. The stench of spoiling meat stagnates the air, clogging Hugo's nostrils with its foul perfume. Scruffy laps in exhaustion at Hugo's leg, but another shot of pain seems to go through him, stiffening his every muscle. His tongue dangles lifelessly for a few seconds as he twitches.

"Dammit, dog!" Hugo leans down, pressing his forehead against one of the bloody wounds at Scruffy's throat. "Dammit! Damn you! I can't do this without you, Scruffy. I can't. Pull yourself together!"

The wolf responds with nothing more than a low groan, not even fluttering his eyes in comprehension.

"Hello?" Bryon's voice on the other line sends a hysterical shiver through Hugo.

"Bryon!" he cries into the phone, voice shaking nearly as badly as his hands. "You need to come back! Right now! We need you, man! Scruffy's been hurt!"

"Calm down." The man's voice is steeled, but also gentle. "Deep breaths. Calm down and start again."

Bryon soothes his nerves the way a mother's heartbeat soothes an infant. The warmth in Bryon's voice is laced with urgency, a sort of guarantee that, no matter what may ail Hugo, he'll made it better, just like he always has. Hugo's pulse eases slightly, influenced by Bryon's impenetrable calm. His rapid breathing grows slower, his trembling limbs lessen, and his voice quakes less.

"There were some people," Hugo pants, struggling to crush the shallow pattern of his breathing with every flaky word. "I think they murdered a family – there's a dead family. It's like they were ripping them open… They were past the one-fifty marker, so Scruffy couldn't chase them off."

"That's why I don't advise that method," Bryon acknowledges, voice gentle, perhaps not pressing the matter because of Hugo's raging anxiety. "What happened?"

"I don't know, man, I don't know!" Hugo rubs at his eyes with his wrist, not allowing any liquid panic to escape his tear ducts. "It was Penryn that went out there! She needed some time alone, and I guess she crossed the border, and… I heard so many gunshots, Bryon. _So many_. One after the other. Apparently they _all_ went into Scruffy."

"Is Penryn there with you?" Bryon questions sharply, his tone refined by his focus. "Can she help stem the bleeding?"

"I –" Hugo gnaws at his lip. "I think they kidnapped her, Bryon. Tires squealed as I was running this way, and she's nowhere to be found. No body, nothing. I – I couldn't catch it, I couldn't…"

"Don't worry." Bryon's assuaging voice returns, this time with a more wearied cadence shaping his words. "You did the best you could. I'll handle her. But Scruffy – how is he doing?"

"He's stopped twitching at his name!" Hugo cries in a panic, eyes wide as he feels for the wolf's pulse. The lethargic heartbeat pounding sluggishly beneath his fur is only marginally comforting.

"Put me on speakerphone, and do exactly as I say," Bryon instructs, his wisdom only adding to the power backing each word. "You need to clean the wounds and dig out the bullets, then stem the bleeding. This will only be temporary, but don't worry, I'm on my way."

* * *

My focus wanes in and out with an acute and painful throbbing in my head. The only sharp sensations I can really feel are the rope bindings around my wrists, around my thumbs, and around my ankles. Fuzz covers my gaze, so even if I manage to pry my eyes open, I don't have much to look at. Instead of training my meager will on my vision, therefore, I hone my hearing as much as I can and listen into the daunting conversation echoing through the car.

"Keep breathing, Jim!" the one with the nasally voice hollers. "Keep breathing! Dammit, I can't handle Pa by myself, Jimmy. Keep your shit together!"

"I'm alright." It's a frail grunt, a mere fraction of the powerful, throaty-voiced man that had gone head-to-head with Emilio's knife. "Bitch got me good, though. _Dammit_."

"Why are we even bringing her along, Jim?" the other snarls. "We should repay the favor and dump her off the road somewhere."

"That ain't right, Howard, you know it ain't," sighs Jim. "We ain't the monsters here. We can't start acting like 'em. Got enough blood on our hands hauling Pa around, we don't need to add more."

"What's one more girl?" Howard grunts, his nasally voice almost making me shiver in my bindings. "Bodies already pave the streets. Who's to say we shouldn't put one more? Cuz if we didn't stop her when we did, it'd be Pa's body stacking on top of the others."

"Stop that," Jim growls, his command followed by a weak slam of flesh on flesh. "We're just going to get where we need to go, switch cars, and leave her behind to fend for herself. Nothing more."

"Then she'll blab to her friends, the friends that can engineer a giant mutant wolf, and we'll have a bunch of angry mutts on our tail!" Howard protests, growing angry. "We can't stand up against scientist nutters and keep Pa safe! We can't handle that right now! No, what we need to do is make sure no one ever listens to her! Ever again!"

"_We are not killing that girl!_" Jim shouts, the engine roaring.

"Fine!" Howard snaps, his voice gradually growing maniacally quiet and cool. "Fine. We don't need to kill her. But no one listens to a fucking bitch if they're labeled as a 'fucking bitch'."

Jim is silent for a moment, and I can picture him staring at Howard without comprehension. "What are you sayin'?"

"I'm sayin' that there's a slave trade going on down in Los Angeles." The car jolts, as if someone had slammed a foot onto the breaks, but it quickly starts again. "Maids, handymen, sex slaves – the likes. Didn't you hear that whackjob back at the shop, Jim? Humans and angels coexisting, united by that need for enslavement. I say we get her over there and give her away to one of those feathered things – give her, not sell her – and then we don't worry about it no more."

"What are you saying?" Breathily, Jim laughs nervously, as if he's staring Death between the eyes but trying to play it off. "Pa hasn't been the same since Ma died, but neither have you, have ya? But when you made a deal with the demon, you gave away your heart instead of your humanity!"

"Be real," Howard scolds. "It's this kid's virginity – if the whore even has that – or dad's life."

Jim's voice is frigid with horror. "I am not selling – or 'giving', _whatever_ – a little girl into the sex trade."

"But –"

"_No_." He launches into a fit of violent coughing.

"She stabbed you!"

"So she did," Jim hacks. "But we… we… attacked her dog first."

"The dog attacked us!"

"It did not," he scolds, his wheezing resembling cold laughter. "It leapt from the bushes and growled all scary-like."

"It's her or Pa, Jimmy! Time for you to decide who you care about more!"

Jim is silent for a moment beside his puffing coughs. In this moment, I find myself praying that Bryon's God does look down upon me, and I pray that it is benevolent, despite what he may think. I hope with my heart beating painfully in my chest that Jimmy will hold out on his goodness, and not succumb to Howard's cold, biting logic. I bite my lip and squeeze my eyes, shut, releasing a shuddering breath from the backseat of their truck.

"She's awake," Jim says quietly, voice neutral.

Howard whirls around, his eyes gleaming angrily, and, with the swift motion of his fist, I'm awake no longer.

* * *

_I stumble to my feet, glaring murderously at the intruder lounging in my dream world, not even twenty feet away and utterly at ease with my furious presence. _

_"What are you doing here?" I growl, curling my hands into fists. _

_"I could as you the same question." Lucius flips a page in his yellow-paged book, glancing over his sunglasses over at me. "After all, it's my dream you're trespassing in, and I'm not acting at all rude about it."_

_My mouth falls open at the austere tenor of his voice. It's as if I'm talking with any other normal person, here in this dream – his chilling tones don't inspire the trill of fear down my spine, and I find no fear with his menacing presence. Perhaps it's because his mental voice is different from his actual voice, or perhaps it's because of our rather childish surroundings are manipulating the cadence of his speech._

_Lucius lounges on a lawnchair made from huge blades of grass braided together beside a red speckled toadstool for a table, where a dainty glass teacup rests, filled with something that could either be wine or blood. The hooks and blades on his black wings gleam in the plethora of bright golden sunlight leaking in through the canopy above. Curled up beside him is a fearsome looking creature swamped in bushy fur, looking almost like a fluffy dog. _

_Undone in the front and almost slipping off his shoulders, the white suit seems at leisure, as if I'm seeing him after hours, and the long pale tie is unbound and dangling around his neck. His bare feet nearly sink into the plushy moss, and his long, scrawny legs are crossed at the ankles. _

_"You seem comfortable," I note, swallowing down the bitter lump of hatred damming my throat and allowing my eyes to drift far enough up Lucius's bored-looking face, pale skin smooth as marble, to see dark purple blemishes ringing his eyes like a raccoon. _

_"It is my dream." He flips a yellow page in his fraying novel; I try to read the title printed onto the maroon leather with grandiose golden ink, but it's in some chicken scratch language. "I'm not accustomed to having intruders. I would ask for an explanation, but you're too thick to have one. Word of advice: don't listen to any animals outside of the meadow, especially not the snake."_

_Encompassing the small, unnaturally green clearing is a massive emerald forest with no end I can see, unlike the sky, which fades into a golden-white fog. Before it fades into fog, little silver specks of light lazily drift around, and brilliant blue butterflies flit over jewel-bright blossoms at the edges of the meadow._

_"Where are we?" I wonder, gawking at the mangy creature panting by Lucius's side. _

_"Fairyland." Calmly, Lucius flips another page, fascinated with an illustration inked into the paper. "Don't laugh, it's quite impolite; yes, I'm the Prince of Hell, and yes, I dream of Fairyland. I created this place as a boy – after hearing a storybook from your uncle. It's home."_

_"Bryon?" I attempt to mask my surprise by breathing in sharply, consequently tasting the earthy aura on my tongue. "When did you… he read you a storybook?"_

_"As a child, he and I spoke often." Flicking a bloody cow knuckle at the animal, he pats the dog's head, glancing down at it almost too stoically. "I believe he took pity on me, golden-hearted oaf. You witnessed our first reunion in centuries. I think it went quite well."_

_"What is that thing?" I whisper, watching as the dog gnaws at the bone, slavering at his lips and glaring with blazing red eyes at me, as if to warn me that it's his and only his. _

_"My dog."_

_"How is your dog in this dream?"_

_"Oh, he's not actually my dog." Lucius pats its head again, an alien kindness softening his sharp features. "Not anymore. She used to be. Best friend, Fluffy was. But the moment he saw my mangy dog, Father Beloved snapped her neck with a flick of the hand. I resurrected this place – and her – to escape my darling dad."_

_"Oh." I blink. "How do I get out of your vacation realm?"_

_"With a flick of my hand or a snap of my fingers, you'll be long gone, returning to whatever the hell made your subconscious decide it was better to come here than stay. But first…" Lucius snaps his book shut, standing so abruptly the dog woofs in surprise; behind his sunglasses, I get the feeling that a keen gaze is focused. He stalks across the moss with the dog at his heels, looking me up and down. "Do you know what's happening? Has your little mystery-solving gang latched on to any clues to this puzzle?"_

_"What puzzle?" I cock my head, brow furrowed. "What are you talking about? And back up, you are entirely too close."_

_He doesn't back up – rather, he takes a step closer, so close I can see the twitch of his eyes moving behind his sunglasses. "Does he not know, or do you not know? Because with either answer, you're no use to me anymore."_

_"Great. Let me go." _

_"I shall." Cocking one pale eyebrow, Lucius grins sleazily. "And the escape plan is my thanks for this brilliant conversation. Now, get out."_

_He snaps his fingers with a teasing smirk. _

* * *

I awaken with a jolt, my mind utterly clear unlike it'd been last time I'd drifted back into waking thoughts. Frantically, I right myself despite the constricting ropes, pushing up on the leather padding to find that the front seats are vacant. Neither of the country boys are to be found. Gazing out the back window into the back of the truck, I see that they aren't nestled out there, either.

Frantically, I seize Emilio's knife from the front seat, inching around like a retarded caterpillar. Though I can't operate the razor sharp blade well without the use of my thumbs, which are bound with their own personal set of shackles, it's comforting to have a weapon in my hands. Tucking it awkwardly in my belt, I begin to study the situation with my rope cuffs.

I get out of the ankle-ropes in no time, simply by kicking my feet apart to loosen the nooses around my legs and then slipping my shoes off, allowing the restraints to slip off with ease. Although my self-defense training had included how to get out of wrist bindings, it requires the use of my thumbs, and I have never been trained anything about these annoying shackles.

I can't pull at the bindings because my fingers can't reach my thumbs. I can't wriggle out of them because I can't move anything but my fingers. I can't maneuver Emilio's knife to cut through the godforsaken thing because without my thumbs, I'd end up slicing up my hands in the process of cutting myself loose, and even then I probably wouldn't be able to do it.

Though it should be the last thing on my mind as I wrestle with the thumbcuffs, I wonder what Raffe would do in this situation. Probably just tear free with his angelic power, which doesn't help me much.

Caught on the subject of Raffe, I think about him as I start to bite the knots on my thumbs and pull with my front teeth. Would Hugo have called by now? Would the archangel come back from his quest? Knowing how fast he flies, he might even be at the female aerie by now, wherever it is. Would he turn back from that, only to come after me? He'd said he'd clean up my messes, hadn't he?

My thoughts are interrupted as the annoying thumb shackles at last slide off. I sigh with relief, stuffing the information of the thumbcuffs into the back of my mind. It'd only work with a gag, but with a gag, they'd be handy for sure.

Slipping free of the wrist ropes, I grab Emilio's knife and prepare myself to exit the truck. Before I can launch myself out of the car, though, I notice something by the side of the road.

An oblong pile of grey stones rests in the swaying grass by the highway, with a large pine tree jutting out of one end like a headstone. At one area of the tree, the bark is chipped away as if someone had laboriously used a knife to pry off each slice until they reached the tender wood underneath. In that area of wet-wood, someone had sloppily carved "JIM" into the tree.

Exactly like a headstone.

My stomach rolls with confusion. So, I'd killed the bastard, just like I'd planned. But now, I'm not completely sure if I should've. If I could go back, I'm not completely sure I would've.

I glance up at the sky, and a jolt of surprise tingles through me – the sky is dark now, rosy with either dawn or dusk. Thinking back to the perilous conversation I'd overheard, I remember that the sky had been white then, and the car filled with the grey daylight of morning, so this _must_ be dusk. An entire day of driving could've carried me far, far from Hugo and Scruffy – at the thought of the poor wolf and my last dismal memory of him, my heart squeezes, as if a ghostly hand strangles its every pulse.

But, as I study the grave before me, the more realistic thoughts dwelling in this labyrinth of a brain overcome my fears. For Howard to create that big a final resting place, to carve Jim's name into the wood and collect all those stones must've taken more than a few hours. And before that, as they'd first set off, they must've stopped somewhere along the way to bandage up Jim's stab wounds and get the dad under control. So, I'm looking at more of an eight hour drive, which is only slightly better.

I stick my head out from the car window, craning it around hesitantly. Howard is still around here somewhere, and he's undoubtedly out for my blood. Instead of spotting the bastard, though, I spot his Pa and the meal he'd created for himself.

Howard looks fairly fresh, to be truthful. I suppose his father enjoys eating healthy.

Face splattered in blood, the father looks up from his meal strewn haplessly across the highway, the guts he'd been shoveling into his mouth quivering halfway across. The hungry glare in his eyes is so feral, so distinctively animal that I find myself terrified. For a petrifying moment, I believe he's going to bolt to his feet, to chase me down and kill me the same way he did an entire family and his own son.

But the man doesn't. He gnashes his teeth and hisses at me like a cat, but he doesn't come after me, as if he's a dog that'd been given a command not to.

First, Jim's words come back to me: "But when you made a deal with the demon, you gave away your heart instead of your humanity!"

Lucius's words don't really come back to me, like a memory resurfaced – I find more likelihood in him whispering them to me again. "And the escape plan is my thanks for a brilliant conversation."

"You bastard," I mutter, clenching my teeth angrily. Though I am angry and though I am disgusted, the intrigued wanderings of my curious mind can't truly be helped – how many pies does Lucius have his fingers in? How many people's madness can really be accredited to some sick demon with more daddy issues than the Winchesters?

Stumbling out across the road, Emilio's knife gripped in both hands, I scan the area better than I'd been able to cooped up in the truck, but there's nothing to see, aside from the cannibal, the cannibal's son, and the first vulture of many to come stalking across the pavement towards the carcass.

Searching the back of the truck, I find three backpacks, a whole lot of chips and water bottles, a few dehydrated meals, granola bars, a long line of rope, a cell phone, a wilderness survival guide and kit, and a few changes of clothes. Grabbing the biggest backpack, I chuck in all the food I can grab and stuff the wilderness kit into an extra pocket. After much debate, I decide to add the book, too, despite the extra weight, and then hook the loop of rope onto one of the outer carabiners.

On top of my T-shirt, I throw on huge plaid flannel, one most likely belonging to Jim, the biggest of them all, over my shirt to keep me warm tonight as the shadowed air reaches frigid temperatures. Fishing out a pair of slightly littler jeans, most likely belonging to Howard, the smallest of them all, I duck into the car and pull them on. I cut them off at the right length and tie it onto my waist with a makeshift belt made of the rope they'd used for my knots.

I weigh out my options – I could either look up and down the road some ways to search for an indication of where I am and risk meeting up with other psychos as day to night does turn, or I could take to the sparse woods around me and risk the nighttime wildlife.

After a silent hesitation in which disgusting noises from the cannibal are the only thing audible for miles around, I dart into the woods, relishing in the cover darkness provides. Though I try to keep briskly walking, the terror of being alone quickly makes me break into a run. Because of Howard's jeans, the thorns barely bother my legs at all.

* * *

Angrily, Raffe stuffs the phone into his pocket, growling deep in his throat. He shuts his eyes tightly, his hands curling into fists so tight, his jagged nails send ribbons of crimson trickling over his palms. "_Dammit_."

* * *

**And here we are again. **

**POLL: Jim, Howard, and their deranged father, on a mad flight from civilization… thoughts?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	39. Chapter Thirty-Eight

**Chapter Thirty Eight**

Shivering, I grip the trunk of the tree, easing my butt onto the thick branch, and bundle myself up in the flannel shirt as best I can. If I trusted my balance more or the strength of this tree, I'd head up another few prongs of the tree before settling down for the night. This position in the tree isn't awful – I'm fifteen feet high, and there's no way someone would be able to spot me unless they look directly up the trunk because of the bushy leaves, plus I'm snugly out of arm's reach, so at least no one will be able to grab me from the ground and pull me down.

It's not that I'm at ease with being in the tree – I can't see much beyond the leaves stained golden by fall's gentle hand. But, unlike me, most sane people traversing woods at night have flashlights. I hadn't been able to recover mine, and, thus, navigating the tangle of brush, trees, ravines, and boulders had been difficult. After an hour, I'd decided that I needed to start searching for a tree.

I pray I'm far enough from the road to discourage anyone travelling along the road to follow the trail I undoubtedly left in my wake.

Though it may be the crisp autumn that paints the leaves and gently blows them to the ground, drying their colorful skins to husks and putting them to rest on beds of their fallen siblings, it's the winter's first fingers of influence that huffs the bitter wind and makes the trees rattle and hiss like a nest of snakes.

I huddle against the tree, praying that the temperatures don't plummet as far as they could – I don't know where I am, and I don't know if I'm in an area that gets down to freezing temperatures into the late hours of the evening. Squeezing my eyes shut and grinding my teeth, I wish for some sort of company. Instinct tells me that another warm body to snuggle against would guard against the cold much better than this tree's rough bark would.

Peeking through the gaps in the stirring leaves that bob and twist with the nighttime zephyrs, I scan the forest. I'm perched close to the top of a ridge, with the peak of the hill at my back and the steep slope before me. Though my visibility is impaired by the other trees dotting the hillside, I'd easily be able to spot any threats sauntering this way as they crossed one of the many quivering pools of moonlight that speckle the ground. No such movement wobbles over the leaves.

For the first time since I staggered away from the pair of country kids and their crazy father, I allow myself to wonder what other companions are doing at the moment. Sighing to myself, I picture my mom and Paige safely tucked into some distant abandoned ski resort, with buff Nephilim guards attending their every woe. Maybe, by now, Paige will have finished her novel. Maybe my mother finally will be calmed by having a safe place to rest, and maybe slivers of her old self will shine through. Maybe they're happy. If they're happy, then I'm happy up this miserable tree, I try to convince myself.

Hugo most certainly isn't happy. Having me disappear like that on his watch… I don't know if Bryon will blame him, but Raffe certainly will. Additionally, Scruffy's probably clinging to life by his fingernails somewhere, and it'll throw Hugo into a massive panic. Perhaps I'm having a better time alone in this wretched tree than he is surrounded by friends.

Shivering away all of my negative thoughts, I duck my chin into the collar of my massive flannel, and welcome sleep's reluctant arms. Though I don't know necessarily how long I slumber, I know that, when I am awakened by the chilling clicking of metal on metal, it hasn't been nearly enough to rest my brain and stiff muscles.

Jumping at the _clack-clack-clack_, I awaken with my hand already on the knife. Unsheathing it partly, I unknowingly draw the silvery blade into a shaft of starlight seemingly deemed especially for this purpose. Beneath the tree, a quick, startled crushing of leaves sounds, almost as if the creature is frightened by the flash of steel, haloed by the moon's ivory glow.

The knife doesn't maintain its fright appeal for long.

Creeping back up to the base of my tree in utter silence is a little boy in ragged clothes. My heart skips at beat in terrified recognition of the animal yet stiff way he moves, by the pale skin crisscrossed in purple along his face, and the gleam of silver between his stitched up lips.

My heart hammers in my chest, pounding against my ribcage, as if desperate to escape its trap of bone and blood.

One of the children had snuck up on me while I'd been sleeping.

If it hadn't clicked its teeth, I never would've noticed it was there.

* * *

"You weren't kidding when you said the family was ripped apart," remarks a voice darkly from the edge of the woods. Hugo whips his head around in time to see Bryon melt from the shadows, his cloak whisking around his feet in a sudden breeze that sweeps the area. Those bronze eyes burn like brands in the darkened night.

"Bryon!" Hugo throws himself to his feet, subtly rubbing his face to assure that the salty tracks his sparse tears had left in their wake truly are gone, realizing after the fact that he might've only drawn attention to them.

"Hugo." Swiftly closing the distance between them, Bryon wraps his arms around Hugo in a firm, brief hug – praying that Bryon either doesn't notice or doesn't remark, he huddles closer to the man's chest, breathing in his woody scent and relishing the scratchiness of the shirt's coarse fabric against his cheek.

"Thanks, man," Hugo sighs, not wanting to be the first to let go. "You can help him, right? He's not… he hasn't gotten any worse from what I can tell, but he hasn't… improved."

"I'll help him." Bryon pats Hugo on the back as a parting gesture, and breaks apart. "For you, I brought therapy assistance."

Hugo furrows his brow and frowns up at Bryon, but, before he can question what exactly therapy assistance may be, a thunderous chuckle echoes from behind him, somewhat strained with concern. Gasping with delighted recognition, Hugo turns on heel, gazes up at the laugher with stars in his eyes, and attempts to strangle the Fallen angel teddy bear in a hug.

"Hi," Bay greets.

"Hey, Bay," Hugo laughs breathily, closing his eyes. "Oh, man, you are perfect therapy. I'm going to have to warn you, I don't know if I'm letting you go anytime soon."

"Okay, Hugo." Bay returns the strangling embrace with a more gentle touch. "Okay."

* * *

Nervously, I drum my fingers along the hilt of Emilio's knife, contemplating pulling it completely from its sheathe. The boy paces to and fro at the base of the tree, snarling silently up at me with a metal-toothed grimace.

As far as he can see, I'm up a tree, unable to escape him – trapped prey. Perhaps he's been following me since the highway, waiting for an opportunity like this. But the only flaw in his otherwise perfect plan is that the first branch on the tree is well out of his reach, so far that, even if it hooked its fingers into the bark and shimmied up a foot or two, it wouldn't be able to grab the limb.

So here I am, the prey, safe unless I try to escape the trap.

Pinching my eyebrows together, I clear my throat, recalling how Paige had woke up in the mass of other children only after I'd called out for her. _Names have power._ Hadn't Raffe said something similar to that?

"James!" I shout down at him, trying to say something that rings a bell. "Thomas... Scott? _Scott_! Billy, Bill! Jim! Bruce! Michael! Clark! Luke! Matt! Uh... Clint... David! Tony! George, Adam, Mason! Steve! John! ...Logan?"

The boy doesn't react to any of the names I call out. He blinks slowly up at me, as if trying to figure out why I'm shouting at him.

I rub the hilt in my hand, sighing to myself. I don't want to kill the kid, especially at night, but I don't feel comfortable with him creeping around my tree. Caught in the impossibility of my situation, I study the boy as he studies me – we are both trapped, even though it's I who's up a tree. Bored by the dullness of our ongoing stalemate, I figure that he's trapped as much as I am – beneath those rags, there isn't much meat on his bones, I'd wager. People are probably beginning to become wary of solitary children, which means no more easy meals.

"You're trapped here as much as I am, huh?" I call down to him.

The boy blinks slowly again, almost reminding me of a lazy lizard batting his eyes on a sunny day.

Shivering, I grab the backpack I'd hung on a knoll and throw it over a shoulder, the branch trembling beneath my feet as I crane for the next rack of branches, eager to grow slightly higher than I am now.

* * *

"So, the people that took Penryn for an involuntary vacation…" The angel rises from the shredded up body he'd been studying, half-cocking his head towards Hugo. "They did this?"

Hugo shrugs. "I mean, there was only one party going on in this stretch of the woods."

"Do you or do you not know who murdered these people?" Pigeon-Bat questions coldly, blue eyes flashing angrily. Hugo gestures Bay back into a position of relaxation as the Fallen angel stiffens from his slouch against one of the trees.

"I don't know," Hugo answers as evenly as possible. "I was a bit more concerned with the fact that Scruffy was dying in front of me. Penryn's still out there, Pigeon-Bat. All you've got to do is find her."

"She could be running into any sort of trouble right now," the archangel snaps, raking a hand through his hair. "Do you know what a terrible shape you monkeys are in? They're acting like pigs out there. They're taking what they want. And if what they want is Penryn…"

Hugo doesn't reply; rather, he analyzes the situation with a keen eye.

Pigeon-Bat is unkempt and tousled, meaning he hasn't been thinking about his appearance much – even his spic and span wings have ruffled feathers and mud stains. Mud stains? Red mud stains? No. Some are mud. Some aren't. He must've run into trouble along the way, sometime after he heard the news about Penryn, otherwise he would've cleaned them to look organized before the she-angels. His shirt is torn in places with huge, gaping slashes that could solely be left by knives, placing humans as the one and only suspects. Beneath the angel's threadbare shirt, the silvery scars healing up only prove Hugo's point. Ugly purple bruises mottle over his fingers and beneath his nails, meaning that the fight hadn't been too long ago, and he'd hit something too hard for his meager angel fists several times; by their intensity, the bruises seem to have been afflicted a little over three hours ago, maybe refreshed slightly along the way.

Also on his hands are marks that bite much deeper than any of his bruises, red crescents still coated in crusty scabs; perhaps it's coincidence that the crescents lie exactly where his fingers would curl, or perhaps it's a sign of anger, and of self-harm to release some of that anger. Hugo guesses that the angel sought out a gang to beat up on after punching a tree or something else _very_ hard to release some of that fury. But not all of it is gone – his voice is strained beneath its cold, indifferent tones, betraying his inner fury. Bulging in his front pocket are the voice pills. Hugo cocks his brow. He'd kept them. Interesting.

To break the awkward silence, Bryon puffs out a skeptical breath, sending the shadows on his face dancing with the liquid streaks of silver dripping over his brow. "Penryn can take care of herself. And you need to head towards Los Angeles."

"What?" Pigeon-Bat wheels around. "Why? How do you know that?"

"I've got friends in high places." Bryon tilts his head, smiling mysteriously. "A friend's tracked her down. He might be giving her the spook, but, quite truthfully, she couldn't be in safer hands. Paws, maybe."

"Cryptic," Hugo mutters darkly, watching the flash of Bryon's eyes with interest, frustrated with his lack of displayed emotion.

"Any more specification?" Pigeon-Bat urges, taking a half-step towards Bryon. "Los Angeles is a lot of ground to cover, and last time I was there, filthy things were brewing in those streets."

"Towards Los Angeles. Not there completely. And you'll know Penryn when you see her; it'll be a little hard to miss."

"Oh, and Pigeon-Bat?"

Irritation flashes in the angel's eyes as he turns back to Hugo.

"Don't beat up any more humans. Stick to trees and brick walls."

* * *

I don't trust it.

Admittedly, I don't see what sort of harm can come from the glow slowly spreading up the mountain the way a red rash can inch up an arm, but I don't see why I should simply believe that whoever is causing the inferno of gentle blues, purples, and greens wouldn't have a reason to hurt anyone with the luminescent plants. Just because Bryon's flowers are harmless doesn't mean these ones are.

Not that these blossoms aren't beautiful – I've watched it from the moment the glow had first started an entire mountain away, as if something had touched down on the distant ridge. I'd studied it nervously as it'd spread like an infectious disease over the woods, an arch of light, a beacon to anyone travelling anywhere nearby. Now that they're close, I can truly catch the smallest glimpse of the grandeur the blossoms provide – the trees' leafy hair gently ripples with soft shades of purple and blue, whereas the foliage swaying at the ground sprouts with gentle orange and green.

My heart hammers as it draws closer, uncomfortably close. If I'm right, and I very well could be, it'd be worth leaving my stuff hanging on the tree and risk the dangers of the child rather than allow whatever brings the drop of heaven with it.

It'd begun with the stars searing in the sky like brands for mere seconds before reverting to their usual brilliance. A comet with a fiery tail had streaked across the sky, the painted flare on the blackness above left in its wake lasting seconds longer than a normal one should've. The little boy had gone rigid as a board, whirling about wildly in place, his fanged mouth dropping open, as if awed. My heart had squeezed at that first sign; maybe he'd never seen a comet before in his short lifespan, and maybe such beauty to him could be a gift from God. The only gift from God I'm praying for is a way out of his trap.

Now, with the glowing beauty on our doorstep, I watch curiously as he takes trembling steps towards the glow, as if frightened to believe what he sees, yet hoping it's there all the same. Puzzled, I tilt my head as the little boy walks stiff-leggedly towards the oncoming glow.

It halts not a solid hundred yards from where he and I are caught in this trap. Flowers drift into the sky, tangles of vines twine around trees, and pollen shines fluorescently. Amongst all the light, a shadow broods at the edge, a massive black silhouette against the shimmering blossoms. The longer it stands unmoving, the more plants grow around its legs, and the denser the illuminated foliage becomes.

My heart hammers in my chest as whispers gloss the air with their thick presence, echoing without rhyme nor rhythm, all in the same monotonous voice. Overlapping, bodiless, and mostly too quiet to be comprehended, they have a haunting effect on the valley, silencing the crickets and hushing the chanting owls. The tangle of the audible words and the unintelligible don't make much sense to me – the words range from something like "My child" to "Let the light beckon" to a particularly loud amongst the quiet "Peace now unto the nighttime gales and bring forth the child."

I squint at the creature dwelling in the light. "White Wolf?" I murmur to myself.

The whispers cut off as soon as they'd began. Silence rules eerily over the forest, the only sound the hiss of wind through the trees. The quiet is broken as the boy falls to all fours, and the creature in the illumination throws out a great pair of inky black wings against the massive glow of plants, their hooked edges splaying up above the canopies and against the half moon.

One final whisper pierces the night, its cadence gentler than that of the others.

"Alex."

Gasping delightedly, the boy dashes towards the glowing lights, and disappears into their midst – not as if he's gotten lost in the jungle or like it'd swallowed him, but like the light of a candle going out, and he's gone.

_Alex. _That'd been his name. But where did he go?

As I gawk, not comprehending what events plays out before me, a presence seems to slide its mind against mine, almost as if it's turning to face me. Even though the plants grow and prosper around his feet, encasing him, shielding him from view, I can feel the White Wolf focusing his abasing gaze upon me.

_I do not appreciate the title 'White Wolf'. It isn't a name at all. I've always liked the name Fredrick, however, so call me Fredrick._

"What are you doing here?" I cry out to him, knife braced though I'm certain it'd do nothing to harm the celestial creature. "What did you do to that boy?"

_I relieved him. The poor child would be haunted by his memories for the rest of his life if I'd healed his ailments, and those memories would eventually drive him to insanity. I have seen it occur. His spirit will instead wander my Garden forever. It is better than Heaven, I assure you. _

"Is that what's happening to all the children?" I whisper. "Why we haven't been running into any?"

_Partially. Your patron has been slaughtering them. I do not delight in sending children through Judgment when they were not responsible for half the crimes they committed. _

"Why are you here, talking to me?" I call, trying very hard to keep the healthy fear installed in my thoughts as I speak with "Fredrick" the White Wolf that put the Clockwork Angel through hell, but it only gets harder and harder, with his words massaging my fatigued brain, sliding up and down my thoughts like a cool, slithering slinky. "Don't you have business to attend to or something? Night wolf hippy shit, with dreamcatchers and voodoo?"

_Am I a night wolf hippy?_ The amusement in the mental presence quickly fades into sharp focus. _A favorite of mine was very, very troubled by your disappearance. On his behalf, I shall watch over you until the morning light chases me away and shrivels up the paradise I create. There are things beyond both our knowledge creeping through these woods tonight, things he would rather I protect you from as best I can. _

"How are there things going on that you don't know about?" I wonder, screwing up my face skeptically. "Haven't you been around since, like, forever? Don't you camp out in the Garden of frigging Eden?"

_I have been around since the birth of _this_ era, a time of angels and demons, with remnants of its pasts still stuck to the world like chunks of food on an empty plate. I do not know everything. _

"What do you mean, a time of angels and demons?" My curiosity gets the better of me. "What sort of remnants? What past are you talking about?"

_Dragons and phoenixes, men turned to wolves, unicorns, and a boy obsessed with the world of steampunk… the hints are all there for someone who can read them. The world changes, and so do its elements, its beliefs and impossibilities. Certain variables are always present in this world of ours, but… I shall not carry you into my search for knowledge. _

I swing my legs over the branch I'd been sitting on, peering through the leaves, attempting to get a glimpse of the monster amongst the luminescence. "I'd like to hear. If you're staying until daybreak, you might as well splurge a few of your most invaluable secrets. What are these certain variables that are always present?"

An amused sensation itches at the back of my mind. _My favorite has already told you, Madam Young. The cycle of benevolence and belligerence is always present. No matter who embodies it, no matter who ends it at the dusk of each turn of the world, benevolence and belligerence is a constant in this formula of the universe. _

"I really don't understand that."

_I know my brother under the sun often does not favor Einsteins, but try, Madam Young. Do you have brilliance like your uncle seems to believe? Figure it out. For everything you get right – _below me, at the base of the tree in a shaft of moonlight, a black-leafed bush grows, twisting to its fullness at an unnatural rate – _a rose shall bloom. Now… show me your intelligence, Madam._

"Bryon said that… benevolence and belligerence was present in everyone, didn't he?" I watch a lovely soft pink rose burst into color below me, its gentle glow of color beautiful in the darkened night. "Oh, don't count that, it's not me figuring anything out. So… you're saying that this battle in us of good and evil is in every version of the world, right? That, no matter what, is always there?"

_Consider your rose rightfully earned. That's not the objective I was referring to, however, it's certainly one rule that crosses from one era to another. But there's so much more, child. Use the information I've dropped at your feet. Not a balance of good and evil within, but rather, a cycle…_

"How do you know all this?" I question softly, narrowing my eyes. "Don't you spend all your time either chasing Black Wolf's tail or playing with your flowers?"

_Believe it or not, I am not actually a night wolf hippy. Even in my days as a monster, I was fascinated with knowledge. I wanted to know my future and understand my past. Every free moment I had, I'd curl up with a good book. Now, with infinite time on my hands and the resources to grovel for answers from God Himself. You shouldn't let yourself get distracted. _

"You said a cycle, right?" I frown, looking off into the distance. "Like the cycle of day and night? …Am I just grasping at straws, or…?"

Another rose blossoms beneath me.

"But that doesn't make any sense," I groan, raking a hand through my hair. "With Bryon's theory of good and bad, there's always a bit of both. Night is dark and day is light. There's nothing more known than that."

_Perhaps it's not night and day itself. _

"You!" I realize, snapping my head up. "You and Black Wolf! Uh, well… Wherever you go, glowing plants grow, right?" He doesn't have time to respond, but the rosebush grows another bud. "You… even though you rule in the darkness, the nighttime, something meaning _evil_, you spread light. When you stumble up on a scene, you bring goodness, even though you're technically the element of evil."

The rose that blooms is perhaps the largest yet, its petals looking soft as silk.

_Benevolence and belligerence sounds slightly less harsh. Let's use that from now on, regardless of the blatant title drop. _

"So… you're really just misunderstood, or some shit?"

_Or some shit. I am a devil, Madam Young, and don't you ever forget that. No matter how sad someone's story is, no matter how loving they are on the inside, it makes them just that much more dangerous. Because love, child, is an even crueler whip than that of hatred._

"And Black Wolf…" I furrow my brow, gnawing on my lower lip thoughtfully. "He's the element of light, but… because of the light, he always casts a shadow… right?"

_I'm not giving you a flower for that, but it is part of the equation. I will assist your plight in telling you that hellfire is his symbol whereas mine is a blooming rose blossom. When hellfire burns, its smoke turns into dark, angry clouds overhead. _

"Cloudsthat block out the sky and the sun," I comprehend, another rose bursting to life on its stalk, "and put darkness over everything! So with a combination of the smoke and his own shadows, Black Wolf represents… 'belligerence' even though he's in a sea of 'benevolence.' …How long has Bryon known about this?"

_Longer than I. He maintains a very close connection to the Lord, and thus has a greater understanding of how the universe works. _

"With the burning bush?"

_With the burning bush. As my symbol is a blooming flower, his is a staff engulfed in holy fire. _

"Why hasn't he told me about all this? Told anyone?"

_He is an old man, Madam Young, though he may not look it, and he has grown weary. He wants you to find your own path, same as he did. He only tries to steer you in a direction that will not lead to his failures. To be truthful, I'm not sure how he will manage that, what with my partner looming over your shoulder._

"Okay. _Okay_. So the cycle is present in you two," I mull, sighing heavily. "Alright, well, why? If we're already fighting these senses of good and evil inside us, why do we need two giant embodiments that are always brawling it out? What sort of holy purpose does that serve?"

_There is still room for many more roses, Madam Young, and much time ahead of us before I slip away, but no one can understand why the Lord is the way he is. Why create Heaven and then go to create Hell? Why create benevolence and then create belligerence? Why must something always be cycling, the light and the dark, why must it always be balancing? _

"Can you give me any sort of answer?" I wonder.

_I can. The cycle is mandatory, not only because it is what inspires men to do what is right, but because it keeps the world fresh. If things were to remain as they are for all eternity, if your seasons not to change, if your Earth not to spin, life would grow stale, and then life would cease. One cannot exist without the other, but nothing can exist without them. _

"How would life cease if seasons stopped?"

_The same reason that human bodies must change all throughout their lives to survive as long as you do. Change is as necessary as the heart and all her veins binding us together. _

I hesitate at the wisdom in his tones, uncertain once again of just who or what I'm conversing with. "…You aren't the physical moon and sun, though, are you? Just some weird symbols meaning change, right?"

_I have no idea, truthfully, what we are. But all I have uncovered in all my years point to Blackie and I being the gears that make the world tick. _

"Blackie?"

He has a surreal seriousness in his tone. _Blackie._

"Okay, okay," I chuckle, shaking my head from side to side. "At least you've got the good humor to call him 'Blackie' even if you don't know what the two of you are."

_I wouldn't call it good humor. He simply hates the nickname, and I, being his enemy for all time, like to see him annoyed._

"The puzzle pieces are all right here, aren't they?" I cock my head, focusing on the sea of light before me. "But you and I... we just haven't put them together yet, have we?"

_You haven't. I did a long, long time ago. _The wolf pauses. _You should get some rest. Allow your patron some time to speak with you individually. He is quite the jealous type._

"I suppose he's a bad guy, isn't he?" I realize, a foreign, unappreciated sorrow dampening my spirit and tone. "_The_ bad guy, I mean. Hellfire… that's what ate up Hugo's brother, isn't it? Was he behind that? Has he been behind other senseless killings?"

_My partner is not the "Bad Guy." Neither of us are. We are something much more. But these autumn breezes you feel around us must first exterminate all the dying, austere life around it before spring can bring fresh new plants in vibrant colors piercing through the remains of winter. In order to raise an entire new, fresh economy from an old and dying one, sometimes you must scratch the system entirely to build another. Sometimes, when a civilization has become rotten to the core and has lost their sense of right and wrong, you must abolish them to build them back up from the ashes. And that, Madam Young, is what we are._

* * *

"What are you doing?" Luther grunts uncertainly, shifting his weight as his smaller brother dances around the cavern, marking notes on frail pieces of parchment and sending information rattling into the computer screens set at odd angles from one another.

"Oh, you dim-witted oaf, you've just helped me figure something out!" Lucius cries, throwing his hands up in appreciation. "Of course she's nothing special! The Clockwork Angel is just a woman! I've been silly to think of her as anything else!"

"What do you mean?" Luther questions, hesitantly approaching a painting of a massive white wolf snarling viciously over the shoulder of Gandhi. "What is all this?" After a second, he adds, "Does Dad know about this? Does he approve?"

"Research, Luther, research, and no, Dad has no idea." Lucius rifles through folders on a dark-wood desk. "Have you ever heard the term _zero_? Even you've taken counting, right? All this time, I've been assuming that the Clockwork Angel has been the Zero, and she's not! Not in this equation, not in any equation!"

"What?"

"Zero is always the center of the integers. It's like gravity, best I can explain. I originally derived the term because they had to have Zero emotions, but as I figured out that we are more numbers than we are people, so it – "

"Lucius!" Luther barks, lifting his wings as a flag to the overexcited boy. "Explain slowly."

"You are so ordinary. So boring. Such a slow mind. Fine, fine fine. A Zero is the center of the balance, the perfect midway point, and can only be derived from one with the blood of both good and evil. The good and evil that rotates in this world, that revolves, sometimes needs an axis to rotate around. Most of the time, the good and evil in the world's string of numbers don't need something as powerful as a Zero to nullify both of them, because a Zero is so, so OP. Most of the time, they don't need to orbit around something to remain stable. However, with entities as powerful as I'm dealing with… of course. Of course!"

"The world isn't made of math," Luther sighs, shaking his head from side to side.

"Yes, actually, it is, and we're all variables in one massive equation. Multiple variables, actually, that are added and then subtracted in order of the things we do and the things we leave behind in the massive scheme of our universe." Lucius lifts a folder triumphantly, flipping through it without looking up. "Most of the time, though, God acts as the world's Zero – oh, please, would it help you if I used an equal sign as a better example? Making sure both sides of the equation are the same? The equal sign or the zero, whichever you prefer – it keeps the forces equal, neither force greater than the other, never beating one another, just… cycling, for all eternity, benevolence and belligerence. Oh, wait! Wait! The electron and the proton and the neutron! Perfect example, I give myself a pat on the back for that."

"And... the Clockwork Angel is not a… _Zero_?"

"No." Grinning, Lucius turns on heel, looking absolutely ecstatic. "She's probably not even associated with the eclipses, either, or the time travel. Actually, this book says she favors the sun, I just thought it was BS until I had an unexpected visitor walk in on me." He tosses a book with a complex title in golden lettering at Luther. "I thought she was an incarnation of the Big Man, just like the other two are _practically_ incarnations – it depends on how you interpret them – but no! She's not even in the picture, not really. She is what drew them originally to the cycle, around and around, she is what lured them to the edges of their sanities and then she is what gave them a world of possibility. She is _not_ what's binding them into their constant warring. She is not what they are cycling around. There is an axis, but _she's not it_."

"What is, then?" Luther tilts his head to one side.

"I don't know." Lucius grins, as if this is a novel concept. "I really don't! But when you think about it, whoever they are, they must be absolutely clean of emotion and completely omniscient, omnipotent."

"What?"

"Like God. To be that at that Zero position, one of utter balance… one of omniscience and omnipotence, your vocabulary words of the day... you must be like God. Not cutthroat or merciful. Simply emotionless. Instead of black or white or even grey, you must be _clear_, otherwise the cycle would spin out of balance." Lucius scratches at his chin. "What creature could have that mental capacity? What sort of action would make one prone to both white and black give up their emotions? What sort of creature would do that? And what are they capable of?"

* * *

"She was up all night?" Daisy frowns, watching as the little dragon paces back and forth, as if awaiting the rise of the sun so close. "Do you know what she was dreaming about? What could possibly keep her up?"

"I don't know," Thea mumbles grimly, tightening the girth strap of her wolf's saddle, "but I daresay there's something Belle isn't telling us. And whatever it is… it's terrifying her."

* * *

Penryn.

_I open my eyes, blinking rapidly to clear them. As the overpowering white light blazes through my eyelids, I throw up a hand to block it, but the shafts dance through my fingers, barely stopping any of the glare. Luckily, though, as the white fades into color, a pitch black shape forms between the window casting the light and I. _

_Two blue eyes burst to life on the black. _

Penryn, you and I need to talk.

* * *

**Title drops. Title drops everywhere.**

**Lucius, Luther, Baelan, and Fredrick the Night Wolf Hippy… suddenly, all these demons in one chapter. This makes me happy. **

**As happy as that makes me, I've had major stress issues with releasing this chapter, staying up all night to nitpick over every detail. I'm sorry if there actually was a big "whoops" that I missed and I wasn't just obsessing over nothing like I've allowed myself to believe. **

**POLL: The benevolence and the belligerence… a cycle. One cannot exist without the other. Thus the reason opposites attract... and the reason Audiat and Bryon are so very compatible. Yet here Lucius is, talking about an axis for them to be spinning around. Protons, electrons, and neutrons... thoughts on this theory and who it could very well be? Predictions, maybe?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	40. Chapter Thirty-Nine

**Chapter Thirty Nine**

The way I understand it, you've grown fond to my partner in crime.

_As the light behind him grows dimmer and more colorful, I better identify his shape sitting on a raised platform before a floor-to-ceiling stained glass window. The agitated twitching of his ears and the ireful shuffle of his magnificent white wings becomes clearer and clearer. Those electric blue eyes blink multiple times, prompting me to quit my gawking and say something. _

_"He spoke to me," I whisper. Before I can say anything else, my throat constricts nearly painfully, and I realize I have a throat in shock – a throat, a mouth, and a body; I'm not just some entity, a homeless soul being pulled around to do other's biding. _

Consider your conscious body a luxury I will not always grant you.

_"Thanks." My hands grapple over the ground, finding cold, uneven granite slabs to make up the flooring, and I push myself up into a sitting position. "Thank you."_

Pleasure. Now, what did that son of a bitch tell you? I am just itching to know.

_Instantly, I feel wary – perhaps wrongfully, as White Wolf is a self-admitted devil, but he'd been the first one to give me any instruction about this strange world of demons and angels. "What does it matter to you?"_

My, my, aren't you defensive of the madman? I can practically hear the wedding bells. If you must know, Penryn, I am only wondering what I need to tell you.

_I hesitate, blinking as the stained glass window behind him starts to clear up completely. Distrustfully, my eyes dart around wildly, looking for a way out. The only escape from the dead end the Black Wolf had holed me into are the two tunnels flanking him and leading to more shining glass windows. Behind me, there is only a granite wall, and the arched ceiling holds no secret hatches for a quick escape. _

Penryn.

_"He told me about… well, actually, he didn't really tell me, he gave me hints and let me figure it out. We talked about benevolence and belligerence. About the cycle. Kinda grazed other eras."_

So he left me with the juicy bits. _The wolf bows its head, a rumbling bark released from its jet black muzzle, almost as if it's laughing gruffly. _How kind of him. You must think me a monster by his description.

_"I think you both are blaming each other to be monsters to distract yourselves," I admit, standing up on wobbly legs, trying to keep the world from spinning. "I think you're both scared that the other might be right. But, honestly, you are kind of sketchy, what with the hellfire."_

He'd have you believe I was casting shadows in happy times. No, Penryn, that is not my nature. I have demons within – thus the shadows and the hellfire – but the actions I take allow everyone else to bask in sunlight. _I_ have a shadow. In the symbolism world of things, no one else does.

_"Good for you," I compliment sourly. "Let me get this straight. So you just brought me here to cover your ass?"_

No, Young, and you'd be wise to show some respect.

_Realizing that I might've pushed my indulgences as being favored slightly too much, I hesitate politely. "I'll think about it." Distracted by a movement behind him, I poke a finger at the large stained glass window. "What's that?"_

_The wolf doesn't even glance in its direction, but I don't miss the way his ears fold back and the more solemn note in his telepathic voice. _Happier times. I spend most of my more dismal moments sleeping here, on these tiles, watching the centuries pass. Call it my happy place.

_The stained glass window at his back is constantly in motion, as if it's a video put through a bizarre filter. Willow trees sway around a massive reflective pond, their cloven leaves shaped like teardrops and colored in soft, gentle greens, some slowly falling to the water to ripple its surface. In the distance, between the waving willows, a woman with a floor-length beige dress rests on a stone bench by the water's edge, flipping peacefully through a leather-bound book. Her hair, dark brown but highlighted with streaks of hazel, whips around her head like the branches of the willows; even the few instances her face isn't hidden by the beautiful locks, I can't tell what she looks like – far too distant. Around her feet curls a sleeping black wolf with white wings, his chest bobbing peacefully. _

I wasn't really sleeping. Dozing, maybe, but not sleeping. Enjoying the luxury of just being beside her, still breathing, still alive.

_"Is your life different now?" Frowning, I slide my gaze to his, only to find the wolf bizarrely distant looking, his eyes in another world. "Is something different about the Clockwork Angel?"_

_The wolf growls softly, gazing down at the tiles and staring at them endlessly. His growl sends ripples through his dark black fur, making the tips shine with shades of purple and green, like a raven's feathers. _I did things, Penryn, things that she can't forgive me for. She can't find it in her heart. After all I've done for her, after all I've sacrificed, she can't forgive my only blunder in all these years.

_"What did you do?" I wonder, furrowing my brow. "I mean, I don't know if the legend's that accurate, but it sounded like she really loves you. If she bent the rules of reality to turn you into a wolf… well…"_

I suffered with a temporary bout of insanity in which I travelled through time murdering a crucial member of her family, and then attempted to take the life of our child.

_"Oh." I can't figure up a more fit word. "And this… 'temporary bout of insanity' is over now?"_

Hopefully.

_"Helpful," I sigh, stomaching both terror and disgust as best as I can. "Why am I here, Blackie? What could you possibly have to tell me that requires me to stay here any longer? No offense, but if I wanted to listen to a sop story, I'd go up to any old Joe. Nowadays, everyone's got one."_

_Great head moving slowly, his eyes travelling up and down my body, the wolf sizes me up. As I begin to feel uncomfortable beneath the lens of his microscope, he speaks. _You did not follow my advice.

_"What?"_

I told you not to wander off. You didn't listen to me. If you'd listened, you never would've been in this situation.

_I shrug, wondering why the sun dog brings this up now, of all times. "Yeah, well, it was pretty vague. And isn't the past your thing, not the future? How did you know this would happen?"_

I know my past as well as this ugly wolf's past. Next time I tell you to do something, listen, Penryn.

_"Except when I went against what you advised, I met your archenemy," I point out, cocking an eyebrow and shifting my weight into a more confident position. "Who, by the way, is actually quite nice. He calls me 'Madam Young' instead of Penryn. Plus, he calls himself a devil, so you can't accuse him for being concealing about it."_

A dog is aware that it is a dog – that doesn't mean it's acting special in any way, nor does it mean it should be rewarded more than any other mutt. That is beside the point.

_"You don't seem to be aware that you're a dog," I notice, tilting my head to one side, staring up at him. "Thinking 'you' and the 'ugly wolf' have different pasts is quite interesting in a weird, psychopathic way."_

_For the first time, the wolf stands, rising to his full height and soaring high above me. As his searing eyes fix their gaze on me, quiet thoughts infiltrate my cool façade, worming through my calm and making me shiver almost indiscernibly. Can he kill me? Can he kill my mind? My soul? If he does, will I still be alive in real life? Or will I be forever be caught in a coma of his creation?_

_Before I can stop it, a quick image of Raffe shaking my limp body, his expression panicked, flashes across my mind's eye. My shiver grows until the wolf obviously takes note of it. _

I am not the same as I used to be. _His voice like thunder blasts at my brain. _I have changed. And not for the better. I used to be a good person. Do not push the limits of my hospitality.

_I glance downwards, biting at my lip, trying to squash the urge to drop into a kowtow. _

_ Acid defiles his bellowing tongue. _Speak your mind, Young, or I shall go fishing for your thoughts.

_Fishing, I think to myself, sounds relatively painful. "Just because your body changed doesn't mean you had to. Like it or not, you failed her. After all she did for you, you failed her. Just like White Wolf rose up and became halfway decent, you plummeted and became something sad and pathetic. That's what's on my mind."_

_With tantalizingly sluggish speeds, the wolf first unfolds his beautiful white wings, unfurling them on either side of his body and crowning his shoulders, then lifts his regal feathers until they reign over his head like a pair of menacing pillars. Stained light dances over his inky fur and paints his pale feathers into masterpieces. _

You know nothing. _The wolf's eyes narrow balefully. _Absolutely nothing. I shall change that. Know this, little Young: I am sorry for what I have done in my past. I am. But I have suffered enough. I will not have you torment me anymore. Go. God help you if you speak to me in such vicious tones again.

_"Wait!" I cry, stepping forward, trying to shake off the numbness rapidly consuming my limbs. _

_He fixes his furious glare on me, and I can feel thousands of years of rage burning through my veins, feel his rage burgeoning in me, turning my skin to fire and accelerating the beat of my heart. _

_"The balance is mandatory, Blackie, but I don't think that means your actions have to be. Just be a nice guy and things will turn around. Focus on the present and just let go."_

_His snarl shakes the floor, kindling the terror lodged in my stomach. _What are you doing? This softness will eat at your core! It will rot you from the inside out! Do not let the benevolence of your uncle make you forget who you are, Penryn. You are not him. You are a warrior.

_I square my shoulders as a final act of defiance – the bitter edge hardening his tone as he speaks of Bryon sends a sliver of ice through my stomach, and his critique of my character is not necessary, nor welcomed. Meeting his eyes that scorch like supernovas, I tense my jaw and lift my lips in a snarl every bit as fearsome as his. _

_"I may not be a perfect specimen like Bryon, I may not have his forgiveness, and I don't always have the best solutions to every little woe. But I sure as hell am ten times better than you, because at least I try to be a better person, a better person like him. So send me away, and continue to skulk here, you miserable mongrel." _

Burn in Hell, you little bitch, and may the good man fall.

* * *

I awaken to an ecstatic bellow. "PENRYN!"

My eyes snap open in time to see a large, white-winged angel shove his way quite ungracefully through the webbings of leafy branches then heavily collide with the branch I'm lounged across, causing the entire tree to shudder and groan. Familiar blue eyes meet mine, favored a million times to the last pair I'd gazed into. Familiar white wings silhouette against the luminescent forest. Gut panging painfully with a swell of recognition and the blissful, lightening sensation of departing heavy loneliness and breathtaking terror, I gasp and throw myself towards him, meeting his embrace.

"Penryn," Raffe whispers breathily into my hair, nuzzling at my ear. "Penryn, Penryn, don't you ever do that again. Never. Ever." He releases a slow, shuddering sigh, staggering the sound of it, as if it makes it any less noticeable. "You silly monkeys… can't I even leave you alone? Penryn." He sighs again, sounding much more content, reassured. "_I'm never going to let go of you again_," he vows into my ear, his breath tickling my hair.

I don't say anything. Nothing at all. If I tried, the dam I've built so painstakingly will split down the center, and everything, absolutely everything, will come pouring out. Choking on the lump in my throat, I make a gasping noise as I suck in a quick breath, a hair away from disgracing myself by sobbing all over Raffe's shoulder.

"Penryn?" Worried, Raffe pulls me back, staring into my eyes idolatrously, his face one of taut concern. "What's wrong? Are you alright?"

Though I don't breathe a word, though I don't trust the throat God had given me to speak clearly, though I don't trust my heart not to burst with the weight of it all, I notice two things in that single moment – one, that the dawn has almost come over the land. And secondly, I realize that Raffe's eyes are the color of the stars above – blue, brightened by the coming sun to soon crest over the hill in a ray of gold, and speckling with gentle twinkles of laughter and light.

"Raffe," I croak, throwing myself back at him, clutching him to me like a baby doll.

Initially, Raffe doesn't react. Through his skin, I can almost feel the gears slowly clicking in his brain, trying to understand the female mind with frustration and limited results. But gradually, he slides his arms back around me and applies the same squeezing pressure, just enough to make me feel something besides the pain lodged in my gut.

"When your uncle said that I should fly towards Los Angeles, I'd thought I'd lost you for sure," Raffe admits quietly. "No one that goes into there comes out the same, if they get out at all. It's the same with every slave center."

I don't allow the shock to register, don't allow myself to realize that Raffe was in on the Los Angeles slave trade. I'm happy right now. Could that be what this feeling is? Happiness?

Why does my happiness feel so much like pain?

Before I can form a comprehendible question to ask my angel, a bloodcurdling howl pierce's the night's heavy veil of silence. The thick, throaty bay echoes mournfully over the valley, deep and keening, almost like a warning to any who dare listen. Both Raffe and I stiffen and raise our heads in unison, peaking assumedly through the same crack in the foliage like a pair of meerkats. After initial alarm, Raffe's arms curl around me protectively, tight bands of inescapable steel. The pads of his fingers are gentle, moving rhythmically over my skin in a pattern I'd call a massage.

"What was that?" he murmurs, puzzled and twitchy with agitation.

"White Wolf," I breathe, one hand unlinking from around Raffe's neck to stray to my knife.

"White Wolf?" he repeats, eyes flicking briefly to me. "Did he pin you up this tree? Is he out there? What's wrong with him?"

A gruff bark echoes over the hill, as if the wolf is startled, quickly succeeded by a terrified final yelp that sounds more like a human shriek than it does lupine. I gasp, eyes wide with alarm as the glow in the forest ripples and shivers and then abruptly goes out, plunging the woods into absolute darkness. Not even the stars seem to twinkle.

Nothing breathes aside from Raffe.

"Can you hear anything?" I question, head whipping around, searching for some sort of sound, any indication of life anywhere.

Raffe shakes his head slowly, bundling me even tighter against his chest protectively, cuddling me so that my head is safely cradled in the swooping curve of his neck. "Nothing. A forest is never quiet. But this one… is."

"Were you followed?" I whisper, glancing up at him.

"I wasn't followed in the air," he breathes back, his hands dancing down to his sword's hilt, as if contemplating pulling her out. "You say that was White Wolf? Isn't he one of Hugo's heroes?"

"Close enough," I laugh shakily, pulling Emilio's knife from its scabbard and inadvertently laying it flat against his pectoral.

Glancing down at the knife, one of Raffe's hands go to his sword's hilt. "Well, was it the sun one, then? The beast?"

Thinking back to my terrifying experience with the wicked wolf, I consider that. "I don't _think_ so. He's a daytime creature, and it's darker now than ever."

Raffe glances my direction with rare warmth softening the critical urgency of the presented situation, his grip around me turning slightly comforting. "You're talking again. That's good. Never great to have a mute partner." Before I can muster the strength to reply with my usual witty charm, he glances back towards the direction of the howl, his arms bracing around me. "If it wasn't the sun dog, what was it?"

"What could do that?" Anxiously, I turn Emilio's knife over and over in my hands, settling into the nook of Raffe's arms. "What could dispatch a god just like that? And, more importantly, does it know we're here?"

"I'm thinking it's time to fly," Raffe mutters grimly, one of his arms sliding further down my back, perhaps to better supply strength in his grip on me.

"Fly," I agree, linking my hands at his nape, settling my head in the cove of his collar, the grimy skin of his throat pitching as he swallows against my temple.

Raffe flings his wings out, their moonlit feathers startlingly white in the sea of black. Branches snap as he fans the air, knocking aside dead twigs and causing the tree to tremble, perhaps clearing a pathway as best he can to navigate back into the open air with the winds pulling at us both. When something moves with a crushing hiss of leaves towards us and I squeeze his neck as if I were strangling in in response, he takes flight immediately, regardless of the crackling leaves that snag in his feathers.

Flying in pitch black is something utterly different than flying with the sun beaming down at us – I squeak as my legs momentarily flail about in the dark nothingness engulfing me on all sides, fastening them hastily around Raffe's waist and holding almost uncomfortably tight against him. My heart hammers, and I can't shake the feeling that, somewhere in the liquid black pulling at my clothes and blowing my hair around, a creature capable of killing gods soars after us, fangs bared in a malicious grin.

"Are we being followed?" I whisper into Raffe's neck, trying to focus on the stars swirling over his shoulder to give me some sort of steady point – unfortunately, the twinkling stars pitch and weave with each of his flaps.

"Not that I can see." Tilting sideways, he banks abruptly, sending my stomach for another wild jolt. "I didn't see one last time, either, so it might not be tracking us. By the way, we left your backpack behind. We're not going back to get it, so I hope there wasn't anything of importance in there."

I laugh breathily, pressing my forehead against his chest, shutting my eyes tightly to feel secure in my little nook. "Get me as far away from there as possible, Raffe. _Raffe_. Thank you. Thank you so much for... coming back. _Raffe_."

"I'm not letting you out of my sight," he growls into my ear, his voice sounding like a dastardly warning, like a kidnapper speaking to his ransomed abductee. "Not ever. Don't you even try to escape me."

"I won't." I shiver, opening my eyes and glancing up the slope of his neck, trying to see beyond his chiseled chin. "I am not letting go of you, so it shouldn't be much of a problem."

"I hope you don't let go of me, that's quite a drop." So soft is the tone he speaks in, I can barely make out the low rumbles reverberating deep in his chest, but it almost sounds like he whispers, "And I've already fallen for you once."

* * *

"Ariel," Bryon growls into the phone, "I don't have time for this. If Uriel's trying to send a bushel of troops your way, do what you've always done. Meet them at the border and kick them back to kingdom come."

Hugo watches with mute interest as a voice warbles unintelligibly on the other end of the line. He studies the clench in Bryon's jaw with interest.

"Well, if Audiat's there feeding you information, get her to send them astray," he sighs, shaking his head. "Send them over a Nephilim military base and we'll blast them out of the sky. She can take care of that. She's quite good at it, actually."

The warbling seems angry on the other line, scolding, like a mother chiding her child.

"Right." Sighing hollowly, Bryon pinches the bridge of his nose, seemingly growing centuries older in the course of a few seconds. "Of course. I'm sorry. I understand. Tell her I said… hi, alright?"

One last miffed bark sounds from the other line, and then Bryon rips the phone away from his ear, pounding on the touchscreen powerfully. He mumbles beneath his breath in tones of discontent and aggravation, eyes flashing with the heat of a finished argument. As the man strides back towards Hugo and the group, there is no amused sparkle dancing amongst the bronze in his gaze nor is there a playful quirk at his lips.

It's strange, seeing him without the light of humor in his eyes. Hugo decides it makes Bryon seem much, much older.

"Ariel giving you hell?" Bay grunts, his arm strung around Hugo protectively, boding off the chills of the fading night.

"She's just stressed," Bryon forgives, shaking his head jadedly. "Who can blame her? Audiat is gone, leaving her as the only leader of a bunch of finicky, catty winged women. I would be frayed at the edges as well."

"Yeah, well." Hugo tilts his head to one side. "You're the sole leader of a bunch of two-faced monsters with animal instincts and fierce natural abilities. And yet, I haven't seen you chew anyone's head off in years. So, it doesn't give her a free pass."

Bryon smiles dryly, a hint of his familiar twinkle returning. "Yes, well, I'm something of an oddity in that category. You insufferable normal people must be tolerated somehow."

"Ha, ha," Hugo chuckles, smiling merrily at Bryon, pleased to see even that minute twinkle returned to its rightful place.

These last few days especially seem to have been grating brutally against the Nephilim's protective shell, causing him to be all the more prone to lassitude and depression, but beneath that shell holding strong against the battering blows, the kind, frail spirit he's buoyed all these difficult years still dwells, its tormented heart still beating despite the pain it's felt and the destruction it's dealt. Though Bryon's youthful ebullience hasn't been truly evident in years and had only grown further after his brother's untimely demise, it still remains, waiting to be uncovered by one willing to dig far enough through his bitter and tortured protective layers.

Smiling to himself, Hugo shuts his eyes, leaning against Bay's warm shoulder, and dreams of what will happen to Bryon when Audiat returns. Moiety – it was a term Bryon had adorned them as several times. Out of innocent curiosity, Hugo had researched it to mean one of two equal parts. A moiety without its other half; perhaps that's what Bryon believes himself to be. Perhaps he's right. Only Audiat will be able to share with them the truth on the matter.

Although he doesn't open his eyes as his ears detect the buzz of a phone going off, Hugo scowls at the vibration he hears, his mood growing darker with each repeated growl of the cell phone. Bryon sighs, perhaps digging the phone out of his pocket once again and lifting it to his ear – a gruff, weary grunt sounds, most definitely from his direction, followed almost immediately by an exhausted female voice.

Bryon's tone changes abruptly, a difference so dramatic that Hugo's eyes snap open.

"Penryn!" Bryon sighs with relief, both hands clapping over the phone. "You have a guardian angel!"

"She said, 'I agree,'" Bay reports to Hugo, glancing sideways with a soft smile. "Also, something about wings. Didn't catch it. She's mumbling. Very tired. They've found a country place, a cabin in the middle of nowhere. Raphael says they'll continue to the she-aerie without us when she's rested. She wants to know if that's alright."

"Of course," Bryon chuckles, looking as if a huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders. "Are you alright? Are you hurt? Is that godforsaken angel leaving you alone?"

"She's laughing at that. And, apparently, no, he's not. She's assuring him that she's fine, but just tired. Really tired. Hinting strongly that she needs and wants to go to sleep."

"You sound exhausted, Penryn," Bryon chuckles, his eyes like warm butter. "Why don't you hit the sack?"

"She mumbled a sleepy approval to that. She's saying goodnight. She's hung up."

* * *

Daybreak's first euphoric light pools in through the room through the giant windows, its leading flaxen rays of sunlight turning her pale skin into molten gold and speckling her scarlet eyes with chips of brown and bronze. Though usually held high and cheerfully, her eyebrows are set low and wrathfully, and her mouth is cast in a firm, unmoving line instead of its flexible smile. Had not she been quite so petite or quite so pretty in her little white dress, the diplomat might've even been threatening to Uriel.

But, he notices with a lazy, nonchalant eye, she wears no weapons on her person. Perhaps there's a knife hidden away in her grey pea coat or a blade hidden in a scabbard at her thigh, beneath the silky folds of her cutesy gown. But little, little Audiat doesn't seem to be one for weapons. Words, he decides, are much more her forte, which makes her much more of a formidable foe on the political front.

However, he can find the time to dwell over the she-angel's eunoia later. Instead of greeting her as he would any other partner or foe in business, Uriel only tips his head as she approaches – this isn't his first time dealing with her, and he knows that with a bit of button pushing and small, almost unnoticeable insults, Audiat will lose her head. An angry woman isn't a wise one, and an unwise woman makes foolish mistakes.

What puzzles him is that she fails to notice the small barb – that or it merely doesn't interest her.

"I take it you've come to discuss business regarding my campaign?" Uriel drawls, inspecting his nails, peering at her furtively to check for a response. "What is it now? If you're here to come say that Ariel wants in on the race, get out of my office, _now_."

"Is this an office?" One of her snowy brows arch, a dramatic contrast to the other one still dwelling low on her face. "It seems to me like it's a long, dramatic hall with a desk on one end. Very difficult to defend, what with all these flimsy windows. Well, at least I know where it is now."

Uriel's lips twist into an aggravated frown. "We both know that you're not here to exchange pleasantries, but I was quite unaware the purpose of your venture was to make threats of war. Are you on her side now, Josiah? Will we have to worry about a red-eyed armada?"

Turning to face the archangel that'd followed Audiat by half a step, Uriel initiates a different tactic of button-pushing, contemplating its logic to himself while glaring punishingly at the archangel.

"No." Josiah shakes his head crisply, fumbling with his fingers, looking very much like he'd like to be completely out of the situation. "No, I was just –"

"No, _sir_," Uriel corrects, eyeing the albino with interest. How far will this one go with his submission? How much can he take? Even the lowliest beggar has his limits – but how much will this former slave grovel without the presence of his guardian angel, Wrath of God?

"He doesn't have to call you sir," Audiat cuts in coldly, ice dancing with the gold in her eyes. "He's an archangel, same as you. He accompanied me on my trip back from the she-aerie for safety reasons, nothing more. Get off his back."

Smiling slyly to himself, Uriel props his feet up on his desk and steeples his fingers in front of his lips. Evidently, she-angel's weak point had changed, and, evidently, it's just as easy to prod as the last one.

"Josiah, what exactly were you doing at the she-aerie in the first place, hmm?" Uriel wonders, smiling breezily. "What business carried you there? I've heard rumors of conspiracy, and, friend, you don't want to be on the wrong side of this battle."

His crimson eyes dart towards Audiat – Uriel watches with fascination as Josiah seems to feed off of her fierce confidence, as her contagious spirited fire catches in him. The archangel rolls back his shoulders and not very subtly cracks his knuckles, an infamous gesture of Raphael's, and glares darkly at Uriel.

"You know very well what I was doing," Josiah growls in a low, threateningly foreign voice. "You sent me there to spy on them. Was it only so you could throw these rude accusations in my face? Is that what you want me to share?"

Audiat's eyes narrow sharply and study the room with a keen gaze, as if searching for something, not fully paying attention to the conversation in her search.

"We both know you don't have many friends to share it with," Uriel purrs, narrowing his eyes, wondering if Josiah had finally learned a sliver of self-respect. "Quit the tough act. You're not Wrath of God. If anything, you're Mercy of God."

Uriel had aimed to injure some of his building courage, to cripple the little tickle of fire burning in the archangel's heart before it'd even truly caught hold, but the air he blows only seems to kindle the flame in both of the angels before him.

Josiah slams both of his hands down on the table, leaning forward and shoving Audiat aside. His blood-red eyes boil. "The reason I don't ever lose my temper isn't a reason you want to see. If you want to continue down this road, be my guest, but you'll be the one having to explain why the wimpy albino tore off your wings and shoved them down your throat."

Uriel raises both of his eyebrows, the tips of his lips lifting further, his expression resembling the sinister trickiness of the snake. "You've earned my respect, Josiah. Leave now, the adults have something to talk about, something they don't want you overhearing…"

Audiat leaps like a cat before Josiah can take a step back, snatching up a false pen in a jar of useless pencils, and scurry back out of reach. Registering her movement only a second too late, Uriel has no chance to block the bolt for the dummy writing utensil.

So, as she holds it to the diaphanous sunlight straining in, he sits at the edge of his seat, jaw clenched and fingers taut with nerves. Ravenlike intelligence glints with the gold in her irises as she raises the pen to her face, inspecting its dead tip and the speaker hidden at the button on the other end. Uncertainly, Josiah hugs her side, casting hostile looks towards Uriel, as if daring him to make a move.

At last, Audiat sighs, almost as if disappointed. "You don't do paperwork," she scolds, sounding almost like a mother berating a child. "That's handled by middle management. So next time you try to bug our conversations" – the pen snaps elegantly in two in her pale hands – "don't bother hiding it there. I thought this game would be exciting, Uriel, with less cheap shots. Josiah, you're free to go. We do have something to talk about."

"Do we?" Uriel rumbles, trying to remain dominant even as Audiat tosses the remains of his backup plan, the split bug first hitting the wall and chipping the paintjob before clanging noisily into the trash can.

"Yes, we do." Audiat straightens her spine, gazing down at Uriel haughtily through her bone-white lashes. "I will have an audience with all the peoples of this aerie. A chance to share my opinions and reveal -a few facts that have recently come to surface."

"And what if this audience is not permitted?" Uriel rises from his chair, towering above the comely she-angel, drawing so close to her that their noses almost touch. "Not everyone is willing to listen to the plights of a silly old female…"

"One word." Audiat grins nastily. "_Alcatraz_. If you keep me from the stage or away from public attention, anything to piss me off personally, I will _crush you_." Her mouth contorts into a savage snarl, the words turning guttural on her tongue despite the high pitch she speaks with. "I will _destroy you_, Uriel. You're a clever man." Smiling wickedly, she tilts her head to one side, eyes gleaming like drops of blood. "You can figure that out, can't you?"

Without another word wasted, Audiat wheels around on her high heels and stalks back down the long hallway, buoyant white curls bobbing with every step. The golden light seems to issue its farewells as she continues.

"You weren't dismissed," Uriel calls, trying to destroy the roiling fury in his tones, only half-managing to convince himself that the heated emotions she causes in his brain are seeds she'll coax into thorns if he allows himself to plant them.

"I dismissed myself," she answers over her shoulder, red lips perking coyly. Before he can respond with something witty, Audiat is gone, the remnants of her vicious tenacity still lingering in the air like the wisps of her spice-scented perfume.

Uriel settles back into his chair, rolling back his shoulders, and plucks up another dummy pen from where it'd lain nakedly on the table beside a stack of pre-signed papers, smirking to himself. It's only a matter of time before she lets something slip she shouldn't have.

* * *

Through tiny crescents of vision, I watch Raffe as he hovers awkwardly, as if not knowing what exactly he's supposed to do now that I'm settled down. Instead of escorting me to one of the many bedrooms strewn throughout the house, he'd set me down on the couch with scratchy fabric in the middle of a rustic yet cozy living room, facing an empty fireplace, claiming that it has easier escape routes than anywhere else in the house. He hadn't been expecting this, I'd wager.

Mild amusement perks my lips as he picks up a blanket from the couch beside me, his footsteps soft like a cat's, and hooks it over the curtains, completely blocking all the light that'd threatened to leak through. After admiring his handiwork for a few seconds, he trots back out of view until he's no more than a silhouette in the doorway, dark and shadowed, nearly invisible.

"Raffe," I sigh at last, shifting beneath the comforter he'd all but swaddled me in, "what are you doing?"

"Trying to figure out what to do," he answers candidly, shifting his weight.

"Maybe you should try to get some rest, too," I advise, snuggling up to the rough fabric of the embroidered couch. "We'll need both of us rested up if we run into anybody. Besides, you're the one flying all the way to the she-aerie, not me."

"You were the one that was brutally kidnapped," Raffe counters, "by a couple of lunatics. I never did get that story, by the way."

"Don't change the subject," I chastise.

"But I'm so curious," Raffe whines, cocking one eyebrow, his smile soft yet secretly confident, as if he knows I'll give in.

"No." I shake my head decisively. "We are not talking about that. I don't – not yet, alright, Raffe? We are talking about you getting some sleep, however. You're just as tired as I am, aren't you?"

"Maybe. But I've just flown across the state of California a couple of times over. What's your excuse?"

"We've been over this." Shutting my eyes and smirking to myself, I curl up again, secretly lusting for a heating unit. "Brutally kidnapped by lunatics. We both have great reasons to sleep. So get your rest, Raphael, or I will do something very bad to those wings."

"I'm terrified," Raffe monotones sarcastically, "the Evil Queen used my full name when addressing me! It must be the very end of days…" Then, voice sharpening into a more incisive cadence, he continues, "Whatever attacked the moon mutt is still out there, Penryn. I'm not going to make us vulnerable to it by not standing guard."

"If anything gets anywhere close to this shack," I berate, "you'll hear it coming. And the only thing you're going to do right now is get yourself killed. You're dead on your feet, Raffe."

He glares murderously at me, unsheathing his sword that once was Pooky Bear and flipping her so slowly in his hands that threatened instincts make the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. The deadly gleam of both his gaze and the wicked blade in his hands almost forces a shiver down my spine, a shiver that's only adverted by my curling even tighter into a defensive position.

"I'm much, much tougher than that, and I've got a few tricks left." My instincts go haywire at the cold edge hardening his voice. "For instance, I know that, when I look at you and I catch four eyes gleaming back at me, I can tell something's wrong."

Raffe pounces towards the couch beside me, and a terrified whistle pierces the air. As he flies towards the cushions, blade blazing in his hands, something unnaturally fast darts from underneath a tent of couch pillows and zips towards me, a little bronze streak. The panicked whistle becomes squeaking and popping, like a petrified dolphin, as it darts around the room with Raffe hot on its heels. Gasping with recognition, I lift my comforter a degree, planning on swinging my legs over the edge and stepping between Raffe and the little Nephilim, but Belle sees a chance for cover and goes for it.

She leaps for the crack between my comforter and the couch, half missing and colliding with the cushions, frantically scrabbling towards the safety of darkness. Cold scales brush against my tummy as she burrows beneath my shirt and finds comfort against my chest, perhaps listening to my heartbeat. I coil myself around her, wrapping my entire body around the little dragon, feeling her shivering violently against me.

"Stop!" I snarl, baring my teeth like a wildcat at him, bringing his chase to a screeching halt. "It's Belle! It's just _Belle_!"

Just the thought of Raffe charging me with malevolence in his gaze is enough to make my stomach quiver, so I can't possibly imagine the trauma little baby Belle must be going through at the moment. I clutch her with both hands, whispering soft words of consolation to her trembling little body.

"Belle?" Raffe sounds puzzled, then abruptly shocked. "Belle? What are you doing here, little lizard?"

He strides powerfully towards me, stepping over the coffee table he'd sliced through in an effort to catch Belle, his eyes ablaze with a blend of remorse and fascination. Falling to one knee before me, Raffe brings himself to both of our eye levels, folding his wings against his back.

I refuse to uncurl completely from around Belle, but I relax slightly, muscles losing their tension. Reaching a hand under my shirt, I stroke along her little spine, brushing all the feathers that'd been thrust into disarray back into their proper places, preening through her wings and pulling out tufts of the stuffing she'd darted through to escape Raffe. Although initially confused as to what I was doing sticking hands down my shirt, Raffe seems to comprehend my logic, and waits patiently for Belle to reappear from underneath the flannel.

"You scared her bad," I murmur, glancing scornfully at him. "Now every time she looks at you, she's going to think of that wretched face you made, and it's going to be agony for her to keep from trembling."

"Don't you think I know –" He cuts off, eyebrows pinching together before his expression crumbles entirely, as if suddenly realizing that I might be talking from experience. "She shouldn't have been here," he starts again, voice quiet. "She's supposed to be with the Wives, safely under Thea's wing. I wasn't expecting the little lizard. I thought she was a –"

"Hellion, right?" I supply, sympathy suddenly overcoming my anger and relaxing the tense clench of my jaw.

"Yes." He glances up at Belle, studying her shivering form beneath my shirt. "I hope she'll find it in her heart to forgive me."

A small yet hopeful popping sound, muffled from being spoken under my flannel, echoes around the room, and Belle twists slightly. The magnanimous pop quickly turns into a squeal of distress as she twists and twists again, unable to find her way out of my shirt. I laugh quietly as my shirt bulges and flaps around. As she struggles to find an escape from the ridiculously large flannel, her tiny little claws skitter up and down my body, like a mouse's fragile paws. At one point, her tail sticks up from the collar, the tufted tip causing me to sneeze as it brushes under my nose. Belle squeaks with surprise, following the sound of my sneeze until her little head pokes out from my collar, nostrils testing the air. Her eyes dart around inquisitively, and her horns catch on the flannel, forming almost a little hood with the fabric.

"Hello, little lizard," Raffe greets, chuckling softly, still, as if he's afraid to move.

Belle yawns mightily in response, much more peaceful now that she has successfully discovered a way to escape from the massive flannel. Her pink little forked tongue hovers in the air as she bares her toothless gums to the sky, and, beneath my shirt, her wings stretch in a final flex before she cuddles back against my chest, laying her head against my breast and wrapping her wings around my torso like some sort of adorable dragon hug.

"I think you're forgiven," I murmur, smiling amorously at him, pleased to have both Raffe next to me and Belle sprawled across my belly.

"Thank goodness for that," he chuckles wryly, shaking his head from side to side. "Don't know what I'd do without her approval. You know, I think we might've flown near the Wives' big pack sometime, and she followed us out of curiosity. Scales said she was finicky about who she spends her time with. Maybe she's just more comfortable with us."

"Maybe," I agree. "But if this little experience has taught me anything, it's that when you're tired, you're paranoid. _Get some sleep_."

"Penryn –"

"Let's compromise, then." I arch my eyebrows at him, stroking between Belle's horns as I speak, smiling at the blissful purr that soon rumbles through me. "I'll tell you about what happened with the lunatics if afterwards, you get some sleep."

Raffe seems to contemplate this, the gears clicking behind those blue eyes working on a foreign system, almost incompatible with mine. "I suppose you have yourself a deal." With this, he smirks mischievously, and rises to his full height, towering over me like the demigod he is. My stomach squirms as he reaches over me and begins pulling out couch cushions, one by one.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I mutter, holding up a hand. "No funny business. I've got an infant on my chest, you hear? A little baby."

"Yes, and we've got a better chance of protecting her if we combine our strength." He continues plucking the couch cushions out, chucking them towards the extra, which now has a gash through the center spewing stuffing. "Besides, wouldn't you like a little taste of old times?"

My heart accelerates volatilely as he clambers over me, its vicious speed peaking as he hovers over me for a split second, hair hanging down into his face, one elbow propped on either side of me. But, as he settles down next to me, arm looping around my waist, I, with difficulty, restrain its rambunctious rhythm.

Turning over gingerly so I'm facing him, careful not to disturb Belle, I cup her between the two of us, so that she'll be safely immersed in a sea of never-ending warmth. Raffe seems to grasp my meaning – his muscles ripple against mine, creating a perfect cove for her between our bodies. Beneath my shirt, Belle readjusts accordingly, her tiny head poking from one of the holes between the buttons and resting against Raffe. Sliding his firm bicep under my head as a brilliant substitute for an actual pillow, he cuddles me against him as well, his opposite arm encasing around me and blanketing over Belle.

White plumage stirs against his back, and one of his wings unfurl, first straight upwards until it bumps into the ceiling ungracefully – he hadn't been focused on it I'd guessed, considering he'd been staring intently into my eyes, searching for approval. Trying to play it off, he gently lays it atop both of us and allows the primaries to drag along the floor. His heavenly soft feathers brush against the hands that wrap around his neck.

"Now," he murmurs, stroking a single finger down Belle's spine without breaking my gaze, "you have a story to tell."

* * *

**It feels good to release this chapter. Don't know why. Just does.**

**Now that school has started ticking at a more rapid pace, I doubt I'll be able to update all that frequently, but I won't stop until this is over, so don't worry.**

**POLL: Audiat, girlishly charming and with a smile wide enough even to melt the heart of Bryon, has shown a considerably amount of gall in this chapter as the forceful diplomat, but, in order to get what he wants, Uriel cold-heartedly has sliced off the wings of his rivals and built a murderous army of scorpion people. Does her sudden show of dominance over the malicious archangel bode well for her? And could it be possible that Uriel may take drastic measures against her?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	41. Chapter Forty

**Chapter Forty**

Evidently, Black Wolf decides that, since I'm curled up in the arms of Raffe with a little baby Nephilim sheltered against me, I need to dream of my archenemy. And, amazingly, I don't initially hate him – perhaps because I'm seeing a little baby demon sheltered against his older brother's side.

_"I don't understand," the little Lucius weeps, curled up in a ball with his head hidden by arms and legs, his tiny, shadowy wings wrapping around him, as if he's trying to fade into the darkness. "I don't understand! I did everything, Luther! I did everything he asked!"_

_Curling his wings and arms around the maybe six-year-old Lucius, the older demon seems, though more horrifying in appearance, less frightening in demeanor. The gnarled, ugly, blood-red face of the nurturer seems to be gentled marginally by the tenderness in his beady black eyes. _

_"Hush, now," Luther soothes, rocking his little bawling brother back and forth, causing his hook-encrusted wings to scrape horridly against the wall they both huddle beside. "Shh, shh, shh, don't cry… you'll win next time, I'm sure."_

_"Even if I did," sobs Lucius bitterly, "he'd say that I was cheating and send me to the slaveyards. He hates me, Luther! He hates me!"_

_"But I don't." Taking one lumpy finger tipped with a jagged black nail, Luther gently wipes the tears from Lucius's pale cheek. "I never will, Lucius." He pauses. "I think maybe the reason Papa always wins family game night is because he always chooses the game. He excels in strategy and war tactics, so he gets games like that. I can't learn anything, but you're great at math. I've heard tales of people winning card games through math."_

_"But we never play card games!" Lucius sniffles, blinking up at Luther with – if I had been standing, I would've faltered – beautiful bronze eyes almost the exact shade of Bryon's. The paths of crystalline tears trace down his face in gentle arches. "He'll never, ever play card games! I won't learn, ever!"_

_"Don't be so dramatic," Luther chides, one of his hands fishing around in one of his pockets. "I got the idea earlier the morning and picked up a pack of cards – I thought I could teach you."_

_Lucius blinks up at Luther, his long, white eyelashes gorgeous against the magnificent bronze of his eyes. "So if you teach me…" He trails off, holding in his breath, as if not even daring to hope. _

_"Go on," Luther coaxes. _

_"If you teach me how to play cards, and I get good at it…" His bronze eyes flare with hope, so passionate and beautiful that his wings quiver with apprehension. "Then Dad will see that I can actually win a game! He'll see… he'll see I'm not just some lowlife! Right, Luther? Right?"_

_"Exactly." Smiling broadly through his severe underbite, Luther holds out the deck of cards, fanning it out in one scaly hand. "Now, to start out with, there are fifty-four cards…"_

The dream fades and blurs, slowly becoming another scene with the similar dank environment, this time with a Lucius maybe ten years of age sitting opposite from Luther at a little table, bent over a deck of cards.

_"You've got it," Luther comforts, shaking his head in slight awe. "If you wanted, you could go against Papa now and you'd win, fair and square. There's no reason for you to have to continue this."_

_"But I like it," Lucius protests, looking up from the cards he'd been studying with a flash of bronze eyes. "It's fun. I like figuring out all the math and stuff – did you hear that I got invited to the debate over the function of gravity in the universe? Everyone who's anyone in the science world will be there! I'll have to sneak out, Dad'd never let me go, but it'll be fun! Bryon said he'll watch out for me!"_

_"And I trust Bryon," Luther amends, "but don't you think it's time you went ahead and confronted Pa? The longer you put it off, the greater your anxiety will grow."_

_"No." Lucius lifts an ace from a stack of cards and grins triumphantly at it. "The greater my knowledge will grow. The only thing that can help a weakling like me is knowledge. It's what will help me rise over Dad's brutish ways, so I need to know absolutely everything. That way, someday, I'll be able to overthrow him, and turn this place into someplace everyone would want to be." He looks up from his cards. "Like Heaven. I'll make it like Heaven."_

_"Hush," Luther hisses, eyes darting around nervously. "That's talk of treason. Papa already doesn't like you…"_

I am ripped from that vision and placed into another world, another reality. This one is light and sunny whereas the last had been dismal and dark – creatures of all species converse in a massive ballroom-type room filled with tables and sofas; even a messy looking Bryon lounges over one of the armchairs with dark bags beneath his eyes, his clothing rumpled and wrinkled and his hair sticking up in every which direction.

_"Father," calls a voice closer to what I know, except its tones strangely splayed over an odd chord. A confident Lucius strides into the room, looking like a comely fourteen year old boy still caught halfway between child and man, his growing figure filled out primarily with the stunning white suit he wears. Puzzled, I stare at him – aside from the pale skin, there's nothing that hints to him being the awful demon I know, no fangs coated with dripping black poison, no devilish eyes pitted deep into his sharp face, no shadowy presence of despair accompanying him as he walks swiftly through the room. In fact, demons and Nephilim alike smile at him, waving and calling his name. _

_Half a step behind him follows Luther, who gets none of the same greeting, but instead a cold shoulder, as if his fearsome appearance makes him untouchable. _

_An armored, white-skinned Fallen angel that'd towered over his companions as they'd quarreled over a map turns irately to the approaching boy, scowling mightily at Lucius. As his sons approach, an awful, sticky feeling spreads through my stomach, the dread of knowing that something awful is coming. _

_"I feel like playing a game, something to get these rusty gears clicking once again after a long nighttime of slumber," Lucius announces, smiling pleasantly, his expression not one of a feared enemy, but rather a best friend. "How do you feel about a game of cards, father dearest?"_

_"I am busy," Lucifer growls, baring his teeth. His intimidating height of eight feet begins to scare me, even though I'm not truly there. "Go play with your boyfriend."_

_"I'm not actually gay," Bryon sighs, rubbing at his eyes as he refills his cup of coffee-like liquid. _

_"Get a wife," Sariel advises sluggishly, spanned out on the coffee table as if it were a bed, looking even more asleep than his son._

_"Or a husband, if you're into that sort of thing," Thea chuckles, her eyes twinkling._

_Ignoring that entirely, Lucius steps closer, pulling a deck of cards from his suit pocket and then flipping them from hand to hand like a magician. "Oh, come now, we haven't even begun the meetings. How I've missed our little family game nights, father dearest! Just for a taste of…" Like a cheesy old movie, Lucius holds out the fan of cards, grinning courageously from behind the edges. "Good old times?"_

_"I told you to go, Lucius," he growls, turning his back on his son, a clear indication that the case had closed. I do not miss the way that both Bryon and Luther tense up, raising their heads as if at last noticing the same tension in the air I feel. _

_"Oh, come now, father –" Lucius steps forward, placing a beckoning hand on Lucifer's __arm._

_And Lucifer strikes back, throwing his son across the room so that Lucius is the center of attention. A deathly silence falls over the ballroom. _

_"I HAVE TOLD YOU NO!" the Devil bellows, eyes bursting into literal flame. "AGAIN AND AGAIN, YOU DISGRACE ME WITH YOUR SILLY RANTS!" He strides powerfully forward, his pale skin starting to darken, to turn an awful maroon shade. "AND YET YOU HAVE EVERYONE FOOLED, DON'T YOU? WITH YOUR CHARM AND WIT YOU ENTICE PEOPLE INTO A DEEP SLEEP, ONLY TO PLUNDER FROM THEM IN THEIR SLUMBER. WHY CAN'T YOU BE LIKE YOUR BROTHER?"_

_Luther looks on with horror, not stepping in between his father and brother, but looking as if he wished he could. _

_Lucifer has the stage as he kicks brutally at Lucius's ribs, slamming his son back into the stone wall. No one dares intervene, even as things get only more and more drastic. _

_"THEY SCOFF AND SCORN AT YOUR BROTHER!" Lucifer roars. "THEY ACT AS IF HE IS THE SCROUGE OF THE WORLD! HE IS A PERFECT SON YET IS CURSED WITH PHYSICAL IMPERFECTION! YOU ARE AN INSOLENT BASTARD WITH NO RESPECT FOR AUTHORITY! YOU THINK YOU HAVE ME FOOLED BECAUSE EVERYONE ELSE IS UNDER YOUR SPELL? DO YOU?"_

_Lucius croaks out something unintelligibly, huddling against the wall like he has as a child, his wings wrapped around him, his face hidden in his hands and legs, lacking only the supporting brother. _

_"NOT ANYMORE!" The thunderous cry echoes around the ballroom. "NOT ANYMORE, YOU WRETCHED SON OF A BITCH! LET ALL THOSE WHO LOOK YOU IN THE EYES FIND YOU AS MADDENING AS I FIND YOU! MAY YOUR FACE BE AS UGLY AS YOUR SOUL! MAY YOUR SPIT BE AS POISONOUS AS YOUR TONGUE! LET ALL OF THEM SEE WHAT YOU REALLY ARE, YOU MONSTROUS BASTARD!"_

_An agonized scream rises above the last word Lucifer speaks, and, as his father's hands glow with energy, Lucius writhes, clawing at his eyes and face as slowly, ever so slowly, he turns into the monster I know him as today. His high-pitched cries of anguish remind me of his young age, their never ceasing ferocity making me want to look away. With awful sounds of tearing flesh, hooks and barbs pierce through his beautiful slender bat wings, turning them scaly and awkward – the blood that gushes around the hooks originally has scarlet shades, but gradually becomes a thick, chunky black ooze. As he throws back his head in a tortured scream, I see his pink tongue growing longer and thinner, and his blunt teeth slowly burgeoning into sharklike points. _

_Everyone that'd been calling his name looks away, finding a sudden interest in their shoes or their coffee mugs, and not a single person helps the tortured demon up when at last the Devil steps back, not even Bryon, not even Luther._

* * *

"What the hell," I whisper as the she-aerie comes into view. Belle whistles in agreement, her head poking out from over Raffe's shoulder and her mane rippling in the breeze; although she can fly for short periods of time and can dive at amazing speeds, she doesn't have the endurance for the long flights Raffe commits to, and thus usually ends up perched on his shoulder.

"I told you they were weird," Raffe sighs, shaking his head. "Decided to erect a skyscraper instead of just finding an empty one –"

"I seriously doubt you and I have the same definitions of empty skyscrapers," I inject, recalling the once-busy cities the aeries I'd visited had been centered in.

"– and claiming it." He shoots me a glance saying _you're completely insufferable_, but doesn't make an argument out of my statement. "Which, I suppose, is rather pleasant seeing as you get to make your own arrangements. In the center of the triangle of walls, there's always a massive garden. The bottom floors aren't actual living spaces. They're libraries and club rooms and the likes. Cafeteria. Kitchens. _Food_."

Involuntarily, my stomach rumbles, squelching awkwardly and earning me a disgusted look.

"That's cool," I remark, trying to play off the growling of my hunger, focusing at the hollow triangle-shaped building with shiny glass plates making up all of the siding. "Where do you get in?"

"Through the hole in the middle of the triangle." Raffe says this as if it's obvious, as if I'm being ridiculous not realizing this, a silly little monkey.

Defensively, I comment, "Oh, yeah, forgot I was riding a pigeon in. I meant a ground-entrance for all non-angelic races."

"You'll have to ask the other servants." Raffe's speed slows dramatically, as if he'd crossed an invisible boundary, as if he'd entered restricted air space. "I'd imagine they'd have one, though, given all those houses down there."

Being pinned against Raffe's chest the way I am, I cannot see the ground directly beneath us, and only barely see the rapidly approaching she-aerie, but I imagine a sprawl of little tents and cottages and cars made into homes of the humans surrounding the aerie, and the busy bustle of workers entering and exiting the building. It'd be quite peaceful down there, I'd wager, remembering the patches of green lawns in the seas of gold and brown.

"They seem to be much more relaxed on the terms of security," I notice, frowning in disapproval at the lack of even chain-link fences defending the perimeter of the triangular building. "Why is that?"

"It looks like that, doesn't it?" Raffe agrees, banking suddenly as a flock of she-angels take the air, apparently coming to meet us midway. "No security… well, all you monkeys are more or less their security system. Instead of ignoring you like we usually do, the she-angels let monkeys sleep on a pillow beside their beds, like beloved guard dogs. You couldn't see it through the trees, but miles before you could even catch a glimpse of this meadow, there were little herds of humans scurrying back to the cover of their dens and reporting us to the angel's communication center. Ariel's known we're coming since roughly an hour ago."

"Really?" My interest wanes. "What do the people get out of it?"

"Well, this land beneath us isn't just empty. Aside from the occasional hut, it's farmland, Penryn, and the she-angels cultivate it for fun – we do army workouts, they make plants grow, go figure. They're the tractor angels and do it all themselves, don't worry, they don't send humans out to grovel in the mud. But they not only provide all the humans in their outer limits safety, food, and a cell phone, but they offer medical assistance. The doors to their library are always open to anyone. As long as you're not too bothered by angels supplying your every resource, I guess it's not that bad a job."

"So, the people report a threat to the she-angels… how do they react?" I gaze out towards the triangle, pointing towards the she-angels. "I see those chicks flying our direction, but that wouldn't be enough to fight off a battalion of angry angels storming the she-aerie."

Raffe shrugs. "We were on the opposite sides last time Ariel and I clashed; I don't know how far her homeless network spreads, I don't know how many humans she has working for her, and I don't know how she gets the she-angels ready for battle on the turn of a dime. In fact, I hope to learn that."

"Them be fighting words, Raffe." I shoot him an abasing glare. "They're on your side. Don't let your grudges ruin this chance for us."

Raffe is silent, although whether that's because he doesn't have a suitable answer to grant me or whether it's out of respect for the she-angels that have at last reached us, I'm not sure.

The girl heading the pack looks speckled in color, like a Dalmatian, except in reverse – her skin is a warm caramel, but snowy, crisp white patches speckle over the few areas of her body that are exposed, clumping at her eyes and mouth. Her close-cropped blonde hair is streaked with white. Even the beautiful golden feathers that catch the sun's light and brightens it times a million are splashed with snowy spots, as if she's albino in spots. Admittedly, I've never seen it on a white girl, I've seen the symptoms before – vitiligo.

She loops in one quick, tight circle around Raffe, as if reining him in, corralling him into a small mass of air. As if following her example, the crowd of she-angels that'd nipped at her heels surround Raffe and I, their vibrant wings scooping the air, until they form a tight sphere, forcing him to hover in place with barely enough room for his wings to keep us midair.

"Maion," Raffe calls in greeting as the spotted woman whirls back to the front to face him with a bright flash of golden wings.

"Raphael," she greets, smiling slowly but candidly, her green eyes, though hinted with gut-wrenching caution, bright and welcoming. Then, tipping her head towards me with an even bigger smile, she announces my name.

"Oh, uh –" I hesitate, certain that, no matter how much I may strive to pronounce her name correctly, the twist of angelic names and the strange accents they use when saying them makes it that much more difficult to even discern a butchered version of her name. "May-on?"

Maion hums with laughter. "Close enough. Ariel shall see you now."

Though I'm fairly certain it's an invitation to speak, Raffe doesn't utter a word, and without his approval on any speech, I don't dare talk out of term. As one by one, the angels peel away from their aggressive circle around us in flashes of beautiful wings in every shade, including one woman with feathers splashed with colors like a parrot's, I wonder if maybe they are speaking to one another with body language, some animal way, like on those nature documentaries. Didn't Hugo say something once about angelic social classes being a lot like wolves'? Could they talk like wolves, too?

At that, a sudden thought hits me – either the she-angel Maion had grazed over Belle without a greeting or she hadn't seen the little dragon at all. I glance towards her previous perch to find that the dragon had gone missing, maybe disappearing down into Raffe's hoodie. Though somewhat puzzled as to why she would've shied from the she-angels and where she is exactly, I don't ask any questions, careful not to break the silence snugly griping the air.

Instead, I search for Audiat amongst the crowd of winged people. I'm fairly certain that she'd rank above most of the ground troops, maybe even this Maion lady, but I don't quit looking until I remember that she'd gone to another aerie on a diplomatic mission. Immediately feeling stupid, I search for other antics to occupy my thoughts.

No angels circle the air like they had near the San Francisco aerie – in fact, there's scarcely an angel in sight, aside from a single winged woman perched on the edges of each of the triangle's corners. As we draw closer to the building, I notice a single square out of the top floor that seems odd – instead of the atypical mirrored windows, colorful stained-glass portraits reside. My lips quirk, and, instantly, I know which little she-angel resides there.

"Is that Audiat's place?" I whisper to Raffe, hesitant to break the silence.

"Yes," calls Maion, her face tilted at an angle that looks uncomfortable as she gazes back at us, guiding her way through the air currents without the use of her eyes. "Do you know Audiat, Miss Young?"

"She's my aunt, ma'am, and she's walked through my dreams." I hope she'll both hear me over the sound of Raffe's wings and understand what I'm trying to get across. "I'd say I know her decently."

Maion seems to smile slowly, a touch of mystery in her composed expression. "Hmm, well, you might just be in for a shock, my dear. But silence now. We approach Ariel."

Though it wasn't a rude shush, it shuts me up efficiently as Raffe soars over the gaping hole. The she-angels around us tip into graceful dives, seeming almost like suicidal doves as they pirouette once in the air so that their faces are to the sun before arching backwards. At the sight of them taking nose-dives around us, I grow slightly nervous – diving is the worst thing when you're being carried in an angel's arms.

But thankfully, Maion and Raffe both remain in the air, slowly gliding down with their wings raised like parachutes, angling towards a magnificent balcony. As we descend, I peer around curiously – instead of having straight walls on the inside of the triangle, instead of having windows or walkways or anything at all, sumptuous balconies jut from all sides. Because the space in between the walls is simply so immense, the balconies don't threaten to overlap one another. Angels flit from porch to porch, with some seeming to be access points into the main building instead of personal homes. They don't ever venture high enough to be seen over the lip of the triangle, a successful strategy to conceal their enormous population.

The sheer quantity of balconies and angels astonishes me – had all of the she-angels clumped together? Every last one of them? For this lone skyscraper, this aloof structure built to pierce through the heavens, provides a home for many, many more than the last aeries had, and that's assuming that every she-angel has a balcony flat.

Had they constructed this themselves or used human labor? Had it been fair if people had been involved? Were they paid for their efforts?

Jarring me from my thoughts, Raffe sets down on the balcony, his massive white wings folding against his back. I watch the snowy feathers slide in on one another, smiling slightly to myself at the notch I'd carved into their perfect ray. He gently sets me on my feet, one arm remaining around my waist – I would've believed he'd placed it there to steady me had I not been perfectly balanced on the tile floor and had his eyes not been quite so soft as they roved over my face.

To be blushing as Ariel approaches would be unprofessional, so I feign a mood of disinterest withhis attentions.

My skin crawls as I inspect the balcony, appalled. Perched on the smooth metal hand railing are multiple female cherubs, their babylike heads seemingly melded onto tiny lions' bodies. Almost as if one of them recognizes me, its fat, pink lips quiver with a snarl, revealing sharklike teeth beneath its skin, and its serpentine tail lashes back and forth like a golden whip. Seeing the focus of my attention, Raffe's hand strays towards his sword.

Before I can dwell long over the living gargoyles, something stirs in the shadows between the two whitewood doors that'd casually been thrown open – the silky roll of golden-hued fabric ripples amongst the darkness, and two pairs of metallic eyes blaze to life. I don't see the third pair until Ariel steps into the light, allowing the sun to shed its gaze upon the eyes nearly the color of the shadows themselves.

As she emerges from the darkness, I quickly discover that it's one thing to experience Ariel's powerful and intimidating presence through a dream, and quite another to feel her dark, cold glare on yours. Her face is utterly impassive upon first glance, and upon the second as well, but the longer I stare at her, the angrier her frozen features become, the more threatening her emotionless eyes grow. As she glides forward, dress rippling around her feet like a queen's gown, she commands respect, and carries with her a sense of dignity and righteous pride.

Around her feet trot two more cherubs, these two much more muscled and beefy than the ones guarding the balcony, like Queen Bees. They, too, don't seem overly pleased to have me here, shoving their tufty ears back and perking their lips over their fangs in silent snarls.

As soon as Ariel crosses some invisible boundary, Maion drops to a low kneel, her wings spanning out on either side of her and angled downwards. Though Raffe doesn't move, evidently greeting Ariel as an equal, I decide that perhaps it's better I don't push my luck with this particularly daunting archangel.

Worming out from Raffe's protective grip, I fall to a kneel myself, sinking as low as I can and tipping my head. Squeezing my eyes shut, I swallow with difficulty, feeling Raffe's incredulous judgment at my back and Ariel's shrewd analysis at my front.

"Rise, both of you," Ariel intones, her deep voice a mellifluous purr. "Maion, thank you. You are dismissed."

Maion bows crisply once before taking to the air immediately, flapping as quickly away from the balcony as possible. I wonder what has her in such a hurry as I rise back again beside Raffe. Have we caught Ariel in a dismal mood?

"Allow me to make myself clear before I continue with any formal greetings." Ariel crosses her arms over her chest, baring the silvery scars tracing up and down her black forearms. "You are here because of my hospitality and my hospitality only, and my hospitality does not come without its requirements. Raphael, should you get so much as tipsy, you shall be considered an enemy of this aerie and hunted like a pig. Should you touch any female" – her dark eyes slide briefly to me – "in a way she does not want to, I will personally snap your neck. Should you act in any way that might point to any sort of betrayal, I shall feed you to my cherubs without question. Are we understood so far?"

Raffe nods, his sour expression reminding me how much he hates being on the receiving end of orders. "Yes, we are. Do continue, it's quite rapturing."

Unbothered by Raffe's jibe, Ariel continues without pause. "Because of the nature you are known by nowadays, dear Fallen hero, you shall be expected to plunge yourself deep into hiding should any he-angels stop by, or that viper, Laylah. I simply cannot afford another exposed nerve at the moment. Privileges like chefs and servants can be easily confiscated at the slightest report of abuse or scandal. All the people you see in this building are protected, even those without wings. You shall eat with the masses at eight o'clock sharp each morning, at twelve thirty noon, and at six o'clock in the evening. If we catch you snooping about outside of your apartment after eleven at night, you will be chained and forced to sleep in the dungeon. Again, are we clear?"

Raffe grunts in reluctant submission, eyes ablaze with hatred. Stamping him on the foot, I nod pleasantly, reminding myself religiously to be safe in my apartment by ten. Ariel, however, takes notice of my gesture and the nervous look on my face, and reforms the rules for me.

"Most of that retains to Raphael," she informs me, her voice not soft but perhaps not as rough. "The eating times are the same, of course, but you have a little more liberty until you give me a reason to take it away. Should you miss a meal time, you can always beg from the chefs – they're quite commodious to their own species, and with every right. If you're found out past curfew, you'll be given a nice sleeping pad and be asked to sleep in the cafeteria. My trust in both my own judge of character and Bryon's internal sense of right and wrong tells me that you won't be a weakness but an asset – however, both have been wrong before. Show any sort of malice or anything deemed unnecessary to dwell beneath my roof and you shall find yourself cast out of my borders. Clear, Miss Young?"

"Yes, ma'am." I bow my head with respect. "I'll do my best to keep out of trouble."

"Unfortunately, trouble clings to your partner," Ariel points out, "so I shall be gracious for a few minor errors. You are the Dragon King's blood. Although his actions do not speak for you, it's quite the reputation to be upholding, with quite a lot of glory in its past incarnations. I expect much from you."

"Don't overwhelm her," Raffe growls by my side.

"Apologies." Ariel looks candid, eyes flashing empathetically, but her tone still seems stiff – perhaps it's a permanent setting for her. "Now, let us discuss the plan if he-angels return with Audiat after her diplomatic mission, which, given the situation, they almost certainly will."

"I trust I'll be getting an apartment of my own?" Raffe questions forcefully, his tone dark.

Ariel's eyes narrow. "Second to top floor, furnished moderately richly. Miss Young, do you wish for your own as well?"

"That'd be nice," I admit, not really wanting to get stuck on a couch while Raffe lounges all over a plush queen bed. "Really nice. But it doesn't have to be high up or anything."

Ariel smiles. "Well, first I must propose Audiat's little idea to you. She has offered her own apartment – she apologies in advance for the clutter – as long as she is gone, and the time after it if you prefer; she has bunk beds and a hammock."

"Oh…" I hesitate and then smile. "Yeah, that'd be nice."

Nodding crisply, Ariel flicks her hand, and one of the cherubs by her side prance into the darkness, its claws scraping over the marble flooring. "Consider it yours. However, if he-angels do come on a planned trip, Raffe, the disguise Audiat is creating for you as we speak details your noble quest to slaughter her husband having a place to crash here – should they come here, I'd prefer it if we kept the two of you together. Therefore, you shall stay in the same flat when he-angels are present, given that Miss Young shall act as a quaint maid whenever the others are around, or whenever she is required to listen in on a conversation without attracting attention. Understood?"

"Yeah." "Hear you loud and clear."

"Good." Ariel regards the two of us coolly, gazing at us through her eyelashes. "Now, onto other businesses. What is that in your shirt, Raphael? Are you hiding something?"

"That's Belle," I answer quickly for him, cutting off his bristling defenses for the little dragon curled up quite obviously in the pocket of his hoodie. "She's a Nephilim. Bryon told us to take care of her. She's a little shy, and she doesn't really like being around angels, so she hid."

Ariel raises both of her eyebrows, her look one of exotic incredulity. "An infant Nephilim took cover from some of the most docile angels in the hoodie pocket of the sole most dangerous. Forgive me for finding that difficult to believe, Miss Young, no offense to you meant."

"Well, forgive me for kindly pointing out that it is Raphael, the most dangerous angel of them all, providing the nice warm pocket, whereas you have lion things curled around your feet." I cock one eyebrow. "If I were a Nephilim, I'd be sticking by his side, too."

Instead of responding to my fire, Ariel laughs, perhaps the first show of true emotion over her face. Tipping back her head with the thrumming bellows of laughter, she smiles with poignant, mysterious joy, eyes still tainted with the after effects of her past authority, still dripping with the remnants of her power.

"Your uncle claims that you and he have nearly nothing in common," Ariel chuckles, her eyes gently smoldering, like the coals of a dormant inferno. "And yet, with the proof of my encounter with you right there, I beg to differ. That was a very Bryon-esque answer. I have a feeling that you and I shall get along well, Penryn. On the subject of Bryon, do either of you know where he is, currently?"

Her eyes rove from person to person, lips plunging into a stormy frown, a touch of her past coldness returning. I glance at Raffe but he's shrugging as well – I haven't heard from Bryon since I called him in the early, early morning. Now, with the sun lingering close to the horizon, I don't have the foggiest as to where the wanderer may be.

"That man…" Ariel shakes her head irritably. "I suppose I should be used to his pointless wandering by now. Did you know that he disappeared for almost an entire year last time we descended? Everyone was assuming he was dead, no one had seen him since forever, the only rumors of him being spotted goose chases through slave yards – and it turns out he was your little lapdog all along, earning your respect bit by bit. Do you remember that, Raphael?"

Raffe scowls distastefully at her. "What?" he questions icily.

"Oh, yes, I'm almost certain you remember." Ariel smiles, as if recalling warm memories. "That was the first time I'd ever seen any affection on your face, when you marched into the war meeting with Bryon – excuse me, Simon – padding at your heels. He'd casually whisper things into your ears, the finer points of debates – Audiat overheard him – and you'd get this approving look in your eyes. Never let him see it, of course, but you did respect him, didn't you?"

"Simon is Bryon," Raffe deadpans, as if tasting the words on his tongue. He shakes his head firmly. "No. That's impossible. I burned Simon."

"Bryon is fireproof, actually. Besides, you also killed that pesky bronze dragon several times, if my memory serves correct," Ariel points out, chuckling dryly to herself, stroking the head of her cherub and causing it to purr with pleasure. "Is it so difficult for you to grasp that the Nephilim King bears you no ill will, Raffe? He is a funny man, I will grant, but never one you should ever harbor any doubts about. All you need to do to receive his forgiveness is ask. All you ever need to do is ask."

Spite swells in Raffe's eyes, blackening his face into a terrifying scowl. "He was the one that's been lying to me all this time!" Raffe growls, grinding his teeth. Raking a hand through his hair, Raffe adds, "I should've known it was suspicious, that saintlike attitude of Simon's. He was just there to spy, to eavesdrop, wasn't he?"

"At first," Ariel admits, "he most definitely was. But then he grew to tolerate you, like you, even. We could all see it in his demeanor towards you – you'd gained his respect, not by being a cruel, heartless leader with no compassion for his subjects, but by showing gentleness. He hadn't thought you were capable of gentle emotions, evidently. It's why he stuck around, you realize, why he kept you straight. If it weren't for Bryon, I'd say you'd still be a stupid drunk, drowning in your own woes."

"What did he do?" I inquire, hoping that my curiosity doesn't get the better of me.

"Faked his death," Raffe growls, fingers clenching into fists, trembling slightly. "Made it seem like I'd killed him, he did!"

"What?" I gasp.

"I mourned him!" Raffe bellows, his wings flexing agitatedly on his back, two pale crescents waxing and waning against the golden afternoon light. "That bastard!"

"Calm yourself right now," Ariel orders with cool restraint, "or else you'll be kicked out of this aerie before you ever really stepped foot in it."

Raffe falls silent immediately, but the tension had not left his body. I step sideways towards him and shove my fingers into his stiff and unresponsive hand, staring imploringly up at him. His jaw clenches and unclenches angrily, and I can see his eyes darken with annoyance at my persistence, but when he does meet my gaze, something he finds here seems to relax him. Slowly, his fingers curl around mine, gently pulling me against him so that our shoulders touch.

Ariel watches this intently but without comment, continuing only after the show concludes.

"One night when Raphael was drunk, Bryon allowed himself to beat nearly to death by this idiot." She tips her head towards Raphael. "Back in the day, he was a saint for doing that each night, because beforehand, anyone around was subjected to Wrath of God's terrifying might.

"After being bloodied and trampled on, that night, Bryon did not tuck Raphael into bed as he normally did, he didn't prepare a breakfast meal. He didn't even move from his placement sprawled on the floor. He did, however, bite his own tongue and inject himself with the poison coating his fangs. It doesn't kill _him_, being the bearer of the poison. It does put him in a coma with death eminent if he doesn't wake soon, a coma that he can only be roused from when confronted with smoke, a coma that made his heartbeats so far apart, he seemed to be dead."

"So…" I turn to Raffe, meeting his impassive gaze. "You woke up to a dead Bryon on the floor, and you… what?"

"Freaked out," Raffe sighs wearily, glancing away.

"'Freaked out' is a mild way of putting it," Ariel agrees. "Everyone in the upper ranks and in the hospital was aware of the trick, just to let you know – we'd all decided it was time for Simon to slip away. He stormed into the clinic cradling Bryon in his arms and slammed him down onto a medical table. When the doctors confirmed that Bryon had been 'beaten brutally to death' and that the cause of the untimely demise had been a crushed ribcage and a broken bone that'd pierced his lungs, that he'd been alive and struggling for breath for hours, you should've seen your angel's expression, Miss Young. It was like child that'd just found out his mother couldn't stitch back together the beloved teddy bear he'd torn apart."

My heart pulls at the image, but Raffe mutters darkly under his breath, as if cursing the graphic description of his pain, and his grip around my hand tightens minutely. Taking notice of the noise and the movement, Ariel turns back to Raffe, both of her eyebrows arched and the corners of her lips turned up in the slightest of smiles.

"Penryn, you should know," she purrs softly, "that Raphael gave Bryon a warrior's burial, refusing to allow anyone to help him with any of the preparations. Usually, they are burned on a pyre with their swords clutched in both hands on their chest. But, given that Bryon had already given up the art of war, Raffe here fashioned a staff out of the most ancient oak tree he could find, chipping away at it until it was just the right length for his loyal servant. We asked him why he chose a walking stick, and I remember he said, clear as day –"

"'Because Simon always wanted to travel the world, not destroy it,'" Raffe recalls, eyes ambivalent, submerged in ghosts of the pasts. "'So, instead of giving him a sword to fight away all the monsters, I'll give him a staff, so he won't have to hurt anyone – now, at least, he can wander wherever he chooses without ever having to worry about his feet tiring.'"

"Not exactly the translation I would've gone with," Ariel amends, "but it still maintains the beauty of it. I'm impressed you still remember. …You do realize that's the same staff he uses now, correct?"

"It would've rotten long ago," Raffe dismisses, rolling his eyes slightly.

Her smile is the closest to softness I've seen her become yet. "He had it treated, not only in oils to preserve the wood, but they say he went far beyond that, praying for divine assistance, so he could always wander wherever he chose."

"Really?" I whisper, eyes wide. "_You_ made that, Raffe? I thought it was some gift from God."

Ariel tips back her head in a rumbling laugh. "If you asked your uncle that question, I daresay he'd tell you it was."

* * *

By the light of the dying day, Bryon makes his way through the woods like a shadow – the tethers of companions had been lifted from his shoulders and, for the slightest moment, the heavy burden bearing down upon his soul is being left in his wake. Perhaps the animals have all vacated the woods, perhaps there are no birds left to sing or crickets to chirp, or perhaps they all fall silent with the recognition of a predator in their midst.

Slowly creeping away and over the hillsides, the sun seems to glare down at Bryon with fiery heat, its anger only repressed by its desire for slumber. The trees sway with a breeze, their colorful heads nodding and bobbing together, hissing at the sound – but another noise peaks once through the hiss, low and keening. As Bryon pauses and listens intently to the woods surrounding him, the crimson-tinted shafts of sunlight seem to dance on the foliage around him, swaying rhythmically. He breathes deeply, shutting his eyes, tasting the scent of hell on the roof of his mouth.

Curiously, Bryon briefly gives up the chase – though he had been travelling quite quickly, the daylight restricts his speed and nips at his eyes with its harsh glare. Instead of dashing through the woods, he follows the mysterious scent, listening closely for the sound he expects to hear. The weight of his past slams back onto his shoulders with full force as, between the trees and framed by two glorious willows with their leaves stained red by the sunlight, a resting boy appears, curled up inside his black wings as if shutting out the world.

With a sad smile at his lips and a wail of despair at his heart, Bryon smiles frailly, knowing that the demon is aware of his presence. Despite that, he considers approaching Lucius with many a negative thought – nothing he can say will bring the Prince any comfort if it is the crippling secret he mourns over. It is a punishment for those that dare seek the truth, those that dig too deep, but centuries of habit have Bryon's legs striding smoothly forward before he's aware of it himself.

"Why are you here, old man?" Lucius snaps, his chilled voice still muffled from behind his shadowy wings. "I'm not refunding your niece's bargain, before we get started."

"I didn't come here on her behalf." Bryon's horns catch on a low-hanging branch as he steps closer, causing autumn leaves to spiral like falling fairies. "In fact, Raphael needed to take a step back to achieve his goals, and Penryn can do much better than him."

"So why are you here?" Lucius's voice turns nasty. "Going to show me the magic of friendship? I've got plenty of magic tricks already, if you'd like to see a few, but they all rely on tricks and illusions, not cuddles."

"I'm here because you look like you need to talk." Leaning on his staff, Bryon twines his hands together, blinking twice. "You could, I suppose, stuff down whatever emotions brought you to this wistful place, or you could discuss it with one willing to listen to your woes. I stay with Hugo. Nothing you ever say can be more embarrassing than hearing his secret obsessions with a naughty Fallen angel."

"Someone like you wouldn't understand," Lucius sighs, peeling his wings back and letting them stay loose, his gaze focused up the branches of the willow tree.

Bryon lifts a heavy eyebrow. "Someone like me?"

"Yes, you." Lucius laughs breathily, shutting his pale eyelids over his shadowed eyes. "A little perfect life with a little perfect world. Even a booming title. The Great Dragon King. All hail King Bryon, Lord of the Petunias."

"Lord of the Petunias?" Bryon chuckles, but quickly focuses. "Child, if you know the first thing about me, you'd know that isn't true. You'd know exactly what I've been through, and you'd know it's not completely different from your trials of labor."

"Oh, yes, silly me," Lucius cackles, clawing at his face, "your father is so much like mine! Your mother just like mine! News flash, Abercrombie – you've got it pretty damn good." He slides down the trunk of the tree, his fine white suit chaffing against the coarse bark and causing it to chip over the ground.

Bryon studies Lucius sadly, a sudden surge of sorrow flooding his heart – the boy hadn't yet sought far enough to discover his involvement. For the briefest of moments, Bryon feels like clasping his hands over his ears and screaming, clawing at his eyes like Lucius had done, and loosing himself to complete and utter madness. With a heavy heart, he pushes back the miserable emotions writhing in his stomach and kneels before Lucius, resting his staff in his lap.

Without opening his eyes, Lucius tilts his head limply towards Bryon, swallowing as if it brings him pain. His lips quiver. "I don't want to be the villain anymore," he whimpers, a single blood-red tear tracing down his cheek. "I'm sick of being the monster."

"We all are monsters," Bryon murmurs, voice soft, "but that doesn't make us villains; not all of us."

"Yes, well, most monsters haven't done the things I have to survive." Lucius thrusts his head up, gazing out at the sunset with gritted teeth, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. "I'm sick with myself. You know better than anyone what I've done, how many I've slaughtered just to live another day – I feed off of insanity, I breathe it like you breathe air." He laughs shaking, a sense of hopelessness clinging to each chuckle. "What does that do to a man, I wonder?"

"With enough willpower, anyone can overcome their feral instincts to survive. Nature is only overwhelming if you allow it to be. My recommended diet is a healthy three-course meal of human with a side of furry creatures every mealtime, but I make do with what I believe is humane."

"You changed long ago," Lucius dismisses, gnashing his teeth, "and you hadn't done nearly the amount of things that I have. You hadn't murdered as many as I have. I've made too many mistakes and I've gone too far to back out now."

"The thing about mistakes is that we make them for a reason." Bryon smiles warmly. "If you ask me, that reason isn't so we'll make them again. Those that love you will always forgive you in the end if you simply repent."

"I highly doubt Daddy Dearest will be too keen on hearing that therapy session," Lucius laughs coldly.

"I said those that love you, Lucius." Bryon sighs broodingly. "A plant that grows in darkness can always be saved by a single light to nourish its broken leaves."

A pause in the conversation turns the air into molasses, making it almost difficult to breathe.

Lucius's lips quirk in a nasty grin, and he chuckles in his chest with dark satisfaction.

"Fascinating," the demon whispers, the trails of blood receding, trickling back into his eyes without a blemish of red left behind. "Absolutely fascinating." His eyes slide open slowly, causing Bryon to swiftly advert his gaze. Candid laughter ripples through Lucius, harsh and cruel. "Pleasure doing business with you, Dragon King."

Lucius shoots to his feet, dusting off his suit and straightening his tie. His agile wings flail in the air like a pair of silky black sheets caught in the wind, their sharp iron barbs gleaming maliciously in the low light of the evening's orange glow. Glaring haughtily down at Bryon to where the dragon still remains crouched at the base of the willow tree, Lucius tips his head in reverence grudgingly given.

"Your advise would be quite impacting, if any of my problems were actually that simple." Lucius plays with his cuffs. "Thank you for your valuable input, though, your opinion matters to us. Good day."

"Your problems are that simple, though." Careful not to meet the demon's treacherous gaze, Bryon stares after Lucius as he stalks off, not bothering to rise from the thoughtful crouch. "The thing about the lies you were telling, the ones you were trying – and failing – to fool me with, is that they need to be backed with truth in order for them to be realistic. One can fake the strain in a voice and tears across a cheek, but one can never falsify the ache in the heart. Don't claim the upper hand after you've poured out your soul to anyone."

"You really think I'm just as pathetic as you?" Lucius cackles bloodcurdlingly, halting in his tracks and half-cocking his head towards Bryon with a malicious grin, black tongue flickering at his lips. "You believe that everyone is a delicate little pansy? Oh, no, my friend, what audiences really wants is a good old fashioned _villain_."

"And so the damaged child continued to paint himself as a beloved king in his own mind," Bryon sighs, shaking his head slowly, "unaware that, with every stroke of his brush, he delved deeper and deeper into the abyss of nothingness and despair. Let go of the brush, Lucius; I want to help you."

Lucius's voice is frigid, but with a note of almost wistfulness flavoring the cadence of his name. "Good day, Bryon."

* * *

**I'm so happy for the story of the staff to finally be out. It's kind of been floating around for a while now, that staff, but now it's finally been addressed. Now the only mysteries are what the hell about the eternity cloak and the happy glow flowers…**

**And a whole lot more.**

**Fortieth chapter at last. I can't wait. I really can't.**

**POLL: Every villain had their fall from glory, and Lucius's came by his father's hand. When he needed his brother most, his brother did not come to comfort him. After his great dream was shattered, no one came to wipe his tears out of fear for his blazing eyes. But here's the question – did the experience turn him into a damaged child or a good old fashioned villain?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	42. Chapter Forty-One

**Chapter Forty One**

The evening light looks especially exquisite through the stained glass windows.

Cautiously, I inspect the apartment – every inch of it is plastered in clutter and mess, the walls splashed with colorful, meaningless doodles. Even the ceiling is painted – smiling to myself, I recognize a starry night with flowers drifting up towards the heavens in a beautiful, allaying pattern that could easily lull me to sleep. From the ceiling, jutting from hooks set into the center of stars, dream catchers dangle lifelessly, some of the hoops containing Trees of Life instead of the ordinary webs. Still wind chimes cast eerie shadows over the walls.

In the very center of the room is a sitting area, the plush couches adorned with woven blankets and patchwork throws, a laptop glowing dimly in the low light, and a glossy flat screen TV. To one side of the apartment, there's a studio with skyscrapers of paint cans in every corner and the messiest working area I've ever seen, and to the other, there's a pleasant, moderately tidy living corner. A monster hammock piled high with stuffed animals of various sizes swings before the balcony's door, and a pair of bunk beds is stuffed in the far corner, the bottom bed stacked with hundreds and hundreds of hats, scarves, and gloves. A kitchen area sparkles cleanly through a doorway, and through a crack in the archway, I glimpse promises of an adequate bathroom. The floor beneath my feet is hardwood and immaculate, and several oriental rugs cover the areas.

The ivory wax of unlit candles shines in the bleeding light of the stained glass windows, their blackened wicks drooping mournfully. In themselves, the windows are rather eerie, the eyes of the figures standing motionlessly seemingly boring into my skull, but even I can appreciate the skill they were crafted with. An impoverished mother bends over her sobbing child, a graceful leaf holds droplets of dew as the dusk flares behind it, Black Wolf lunges upwards with his wings extended, fangs bared as if to swallow his sun. However, the largest stained glass window is beautiful, positioned so that the blue-tinged light it sheds falls over the bunk beds in a beautiful ripple of twirling color.

A magnificent dragon sleeps beneath the starlight's majesty, its likeness so similar to Bryon that I would be a fool to consider it anyone else. Heart pulling with sympathy, I study the beauty she'd incorporated into each and every detail of the stained glass window – instead of simple planes and shapes making up his body, painstaking detail had been sewn into every scale and spine. Perhaps she'd created it with such similarity on purpose – perhaps she'd just wanted to have Bryon curled up beside her as she slept once again, a lonely guardian to watch over her dreams.

I step forward cautiously, half-expecting someone to be awaiting me in the flat. Nothing stirs aside from the shadows of the dream catchers. Slowly, I approach the welcoming table in the front room, peering curiously down at its contents.

A sloppy scrawl of my name trails over an unclosed envelope, as if Audiat had been in too much of a hurry to lick the paper's seal. I turn it over in my hands, wondering if perhaps the hastily-packaged boxes it'd been placed on are for me. Deciding there's only one way to learn for sure, I turn the envelope onto its back.

The sound of rustling paper echoes eerily through the empty house. From the hammock, a stuffed monkey's plastic eyes gleam menacingly.

_Dear Penryn,_

_I'm not certain if you'll accept my invitation and stay in my flat, but if you do, this letter will be yours to open, so don't feel like you're invading on anything. _

_Those boxes? Yours. Consider them welcome gifts and a makeup for all those Christmases and birthdays I've missed as your aunt. I know that money doesn't buy love, but currency is worthlless so – crap, this is pen and that was a typo. Typo? Do you call them typos when they're on paper?_

_What I was trying to say is that I'm incredibly sorry for not being there for you. Bryon taught me that family means standing by one another no matter what, and I've… I haven't been there. When I return, which I will hopefully do, I want to talk, you and I, girl to girl. But these will have to suffice for the meantime. _

_Open the smallish orange box. _

Smiling as I set down the papers, I do as she instructs. The box, though relatively small in size, is heavier than I'd expected it to be, and bound in an orange bow. Carefully, I peel off the frilly tie and throw it aside, sifting the lid off the top.

Inside is a jar of paste.

I tilt the squat plastic cylinder from side to side, frowning at the unmarked substances with its glossy black lid. Unscrewing the cap, I sniff it, wrinkling my nose at the bland, artificial odor of the paste. Puzzled, I set the nasty looking yellow goo down and pluck the note from the paper.

_It's Shea Butter of the best degree, in case you're unaware. All the she-angels have their own little jar somewhere, so I thought, since you seem to be spending so much time with Raphael – I am very interested in that, is he a lovebird? – you might need a tank of your own. It's for your mouth, face, and anywhere else exposed to the harsh weather we navigate. Helps with chapped lips and such. I still advised flavored lip gloss for kisses, but this is the best for any other time of the day, especially reapply before going on flights. Plus, it's travel sized, even if it is a little heavy. _

_Onto the next gift. Let's focus on the one with the blue R on it – blue because I didn't have any red on me. _

The next one is fairly obvious – it's a brown leather jacket with furry padding on the inside and a fluffy collar. I stroke my hands over the soft insides, wondering to myself how Raffe's wings can even be softer than this. Slipping my arms through the sleeves, I marvel at the comfort provided by the jacket, even if it is slightly too large for me.

_Sorry if it's too big – I tried my best to –_

I flip onto the next page of her message.

– _size it up to what I think you're like, but I could be a bit off, I was going by Thea's advice! Leather works as a good windbreaker, and the padded inside makes it a good insulator for the winter season. If it's too incorrectly sized, I can always make another one. _

_On that note, if you can fit into any of it, you're welcome to wear any of my clothes. Maybe you can wear a dress as a shirt or something like that! _

_I have some other things for you, of course, but the sizing is much more precise than a jacket needs to be. In fact, when I return, I feel entitled to pass on my loyal dagger, although Emilio tells me you already have his. I tried to make cookies, but I just pulled them out of the oven, and you'd rather not have them… _

_Just for a little knowhow, you can trust practically anyone at the she-aerie – we're a very close knit group with very, very few outcasts, and most of them like being outcasts. However, on the whole, your existence is even more furtive than Bryon's was back in the day, and we want to keep it that way. If you venture down to the training grounds, request either Maion or Ariel, no buts or ifs. At the library, keep to yourself and only associate with Metatron. And for God's sake, stay away from the catty "popular" group you'll see at lunch. _

_Being a teenager and all, I trust you to figure out who those ladies are. _

_So, I really am sorry for the mess. I don't have time to clean. If my stuff ever becomes annoying, just shove it aside. You have free range of practically everything. My only request is that you give a certain amount of respect to the paintings, the piano, and the flowers hidden behind all the coats in the closet – they're Bryon's glowing flowers. I've kept them alive all this time, and I would not appreciate them shriveling up or losing all their blossoms. _

_If you see Bryon… tell him I love him, alright? Because I do. I love him so very, very much, and I will never ever stop loving him. …Does he still love me? _

_This is a letter. Of course you won't be able to answer that. But with this being ink and not graphite, it's staying._

_Sincerely,_

_Audiat_

I set the note down gingerly, smiling amorously at the last paragraph she'd written. Our minds have brushed once, Audiat's and mine, and I have witness her past through Black Wolf's eyes, but for the first time, I feel as though she's forged a physical connection with me through this note and the gifts she'd received. With the edges of my lips lifted in a contented smile, I scoop up the gifts she'd so nobly granted and trot over to the sitting area. The empty room no longer looks quite so eerie, instead seeming fun and lively.

Throwing my jacket over the armrest of a puffy chair and setting Emilio's knife on the coffee table. Rubbing at my eyes with one hand, I trudge over to the nightstand littered with things and place the Shea Butter container on top of her digital clock.

My feet drag slightly over the floor as I find my way to her dresser, pulling out a pair of soft cotton shorts and switching them out for my jeans. I rejoice in tossing both the massive flannel and the sweaty T-shirt into an overflowing laundry basket. Flinging the incorrectly-sized bra after the grungy jeans, I slip on another massive shirt, this one obviously much too big to be Audiat's.

It isn't until I'm halfway up the ladder of Audiat's bunk bed that I realize it could be Bryon's old shirt.

Admittedly, such discoveries make sense, but I can't force my sleepy brain to ponder on them long. Collapsing onto her fully made bed, my nose is rushed with one almost familiar scent – _spices_. I stretch out on top of her comforter, breathing deeply, recalling memories of cooking amateurly in that crappy old kitchen we had in the World Before. Cinnamon and nutmeg and pepper and even a splash of vanilla. My gut wrenches so violently with nostalgia that I curl up in accordance with its brutal twist, burying my face into a bundle of her blanket.

Beside me, the sunlight seeping through the dragon's scales slowly dims, as if he's bidding me a slow, cascading goodnight. I could be mistaken, but, as the last drop of light fades from the room, a tear seems to slip from his closed eye, tracing down his cheek before vanishing entirely.

* * *

_The gentle touch of Bryon's smile warms my heart from top to bottom. It's the age I see him most in during these dreams, in his period of stunning mid-twenties beauty. Sunlight dapples over his face, mottling his features gorgeously. On his shoulders perches the little toddler Hugo, his copper eyes nearly blazing as brightly as Bryon's bronze. Around them plod a mighty lupine herd, with proud, elegant women perched atop leather saddles. _

_Leading the pack of wolves travelling at a steady lope is Thea. Her face, however shadowed by the metal helm, is carved into an impassive expression brooding enough to put her son to shame. The wolf she rides, Cara, seems almost as ratiocinating, gaze roving over the forest warily, its silver eyes terrifyingly bright against the chocolate shade of its fur. _

_The wolf stops dead in her tracks. Cara's nostrils flare to the sky, her elegant head tipped upwards. Following in her example, the pack halts, each thrusting their muzzles to the sky as well. Wolves with all sorts of different pelts and eye colors search the wind for the scent their leader had detected. _

_Hugo's hands clench around Bryon's neck, the gregarious child falling silent as the animals around him sit in ominous quiet. Scruffy, only up to Bryon's shoulders, pants with misunderstanding, attempting to nibble at his fellow's lip but only getting scolded off. Bryon himself closes his eyes and breathes deeply – could he be smelling the air, too? Raffe hasn't mentioned anything about angels having supersmell, so that can't be it._

_"It's a pack of angels," he reports a moment before the wolves all break into one, unanimous growl of certainty. _

_Thea casts her gaze back over her shoulder, the tumble of dark brown hair rolling over her armor. "How can you reach that far with your mind? That's uncanny, Bryon."_

_"Not now," Bryon murmurs from the side of his mouth, still furrowing his brow with concentration. "Two dozen angels, dragging human slaves in bonds behind them – maybe from a breakout? No, they need new recruits is all. They're coming this way. Raphael is among them."_

_A buzz of excitement passes through the women, causing them to raise angelic swords and cry out with bloodlust. The wolves shift their weight in agitation, grinning at one another with gaping pink mouths, as if anticipating the massacre coming. _

_"They're on a route heading for Secrem Domu." Bryon's eyes peel open, and his expression breaks into one of utmost panic. "Disengage! Disengage! Or, better yet, don't engage at all."_

_As all the ranks of warriors recalibrate, shooting one another confused glances and skittering between the trees, Bryon gingerly pulls Hugo from his shoulders and places him on Scruffy's little saddle. He strokes back Hugo's tousled hair, planting a kiss on Hugo's smooth forehead, before wheeling back and addressing the crowds. _

_"We can't let Raphael get anywhere near Secrem Domu. Run back, all of you, and alert them. Hustle them belowground, to the closest Chaza, and instruct them to remain hidden there until I give them the order to emerge. Don't fight these angels, please."_

_"Why not?" Daisy interrogates, striding forward atop a limping yellow wolf that looks blind, with milky, unseeing eyes sunken deep into its face. "Why shouldn't we annihilate the angels before they have the chance to annihilate us?"_

_"Because Raphael's among them." Bryon's eyes glint with desperation. "And if even one of his men, or God forbid, he himself escapes from the skirmish, they will hunt you down and stumble upon your children in the process. I'll hold them off long enough for you to evacuate. Any other time, I'd tell you to beat them to the ground. But now… now your children need you."_

_"Bryon?" Thea wheels Cara around, trotting up beside her son. _

_"Yes?" Bryon stares up at her with adoration, his smile soft and malleable. _

_"Make sure you come back." She kicks at Cara's side, jarring the wolf into a slow, rhythmic pace. "If the last thing a lover hears from you is a negative word… it's heartbreaking. If you were to die on this mission, I doubt your angel would ever forgive herself."_

_"Tell Audiat I forgive her, will you?" Bryon's smile grows slightly cocky. "It's not like I'll be in that much danger, mother. How many times have I escaped from the clutches of Raphael, again?"_

My gut lurches, unprepared for the sudden yank backwards. Falling backwards, the world spins around me dizzyingly, before coming alarmingly into focus. Another dream, another time…

_Bryon's feet slam against the pine needles, throwing up the jagged points in his wakes. So fast my uncle moves, I could believe that a trail of smoke could curl up behind him. Swiftly tailing him is not a plume of smoke but rather, the dark shadows of angels in his wake. The towering pines abruptly give way to endless green fields like abandoned farms, and Bryon is running alone, exposed beneath the glaring light of the sun. _

_His cloak flutters in his wake. The silky brown fabric snaps and cracks in the wind like a flag caught in a hurricane, a signal to the angels on his position. With their target so easily spotted, the angels pour on the speed, their feathers beating the air until their shadows. _

_Bryon's face is abruptly terrified as a pair of them swoop low to him in unison, the shadows of their wings overlapping atop him. Before he can fully succumb to the fear, however, his expression morphs into a fierce snarl. A triumphant fire burns deep in his eyes, partnered with fury and an adamant determination, so powerful it almost makes me terrified. _

_His powerful stride breaking for a few seconds, Bryon scoops up an old, decaying fence post peppered with rusty nails before returning to his sprint with new ferocity. The angels above him pirouette uncertainly, unable to comprehend the difference between a faltering run and a shift in direction. _

_As the angels swoop overhead again, Bryon grins wolfishly up at them, the fencepost braced in both hands. Then, without warning, he leaps upwards, and, as the angels attempt to slow, to react to his unpredictable strike, he slams the wooden plank between the legs of one unfortunate angel. Howling in agony, the angel circles slowly downwards – I realize with glee that the plank remains stationary, hinting that Bryon had driven the bent, twisted nails into the angel's dick. _

_The remaining angel in the pair roars with appalled fury, descending on Bryon with his sword braced in his hands. At the last possible second, Bryon halts completely, digging his heels into the soil. The angel crashes in front of him. Bryon leaps onto the angel's back, plants a foot between his wings, claps both of his hands over the angel's ears and snaps his neck. _

_A shiver goes down my spine seeing the ease Bryon had dispatched both angels with. True, they're not fatal wounds, not even this neck snap, not too angels – but it serves as a fierce reminder that Raffe's constant hunt of the Nephilim had sharpened my uncle into a trained angel hunter. If he had wanted, killing Raffe at any time would've been a routine maneuver. _

_Bryon doesn't waste time pitying the angel that he'd put out of action, instead turning on a dime towards a landmark in the far, far distance – a small gorge, I realize, with a decent sized creek roaring at the belly of the beast. As the angels turn with him, for the first time, I spot the snowy flash of Raffe's wings amongst the others – partially because he doesn't follow Bryon anymore, hovering and studying his path, same as I had, and veering off into the distance. _

_After seeing what'd happened to their comrades, the angels don't seem so eager to descend upon Bryon, instead attempting to wear him out – I don't know much about Bryon's endurance, but I'm willing to bet he's burning a lot more calories sprinting for his life when compared to the angels, coasting peacefully on air currents above him. _

_Not all of the angels seem so eager to stick with the program, however – a few gradually saunter downwards, finding safety in numbers as they converge around Bryon. Out of the ten still nipping at Bryon's heels, three tip downwards, their faces the most contorted with rage. _

_As they come into range of Bryon's powerful leaps, he smiles to himself, a grim, frightening smile, a smile baring his undaunted fortitude to them. Nearer and nearer grows the gorge. _

_Bryon leaps into the narrow ravine, his feet sending up a starburst of crystal water as he crashes into the creek. Tossing up spray in his wake, Bryon changes direction, running parallel to the creek along the sandy riverbed. Above him, the angels shift direction with ease, running into none of the calamities he does as his feet tangle with rocks and stones and brambles. _

_One of the angels smoothly dip downwards until their body is at the same level as Bryon's, his wings scraping the sides of the gorge and smacking Bryon in the back of the head. Grinning solemnly to himself, casting devilish glares at the angel that keeps whacking his head, Bryon waits and waits, his patience seemingly immeasurable as the angel draws only closer. _

_A line of rapids makes the creek shallow and spread out, the jagged rocks piercing through the white froth like talons. Instead of altering his path to stick to the riverbed, Bryon skips off a few of the jutting stones, dashing ahead of the angel until he's directly before the accoster, before jumping up straight in the air. _

_Bryon's feet collide with the angel's back, forcing his chest downwards onto the sharp rocks. A sickening crunch tells both Bryon and I that at least one of the stones has found its mark. Though Bryon doesn't take the time to study it, I see that one of the angel's wings have broken against the rocks. _

_Both bellowing furiously, both the closest angels swirl towards Bryon. Seemingly without glancing up, Bryon kicks off the broken angel's back and grabs the tips of both the angels' wings, dragging them downwards and cracking their heads together. Although only momentarily impaired, it provides the time for him to dash off. _

_Ahead, a bridge awaits, its shadow dark and dank with barely enough room to squeeze through. Bryon's gaze fixes on the bridge hopefully, seeing exactly what I find as I study the cramped space under the toll bridge – if he can somehow fit beneath the bridge, he could hide from the angels. If not accounting the angel's ample ability to merely rip up the bridge, the tight space would be a flawless method to escape them. _

_Baring his teeth and biting his tongue, as a last desperate gamble, Bryon slides beneath the bridge like a batter sliding to home plate. _

_His feet still remain exposed, causing the angels to dive with last desperate cries towards them, their hands outstretched. However, noticing these bellows of anger, Bryon pulls his legs under the bridge, squirming deeper into the recesses. Flipping his body around so that he faces the angry angels crowding at the lips of the dark space, Bryon inches carefully backwards, keeping a watchful eye on those in front of him._

_Unknowingly, he also ignores the greatest threat at his back. _

_A single caramel arm snakes beneath the bridge, broad, powerful hand closing around Bryon's ankle, causing his eyes to widen with heart- wrenching terror; and, with one simple motion, the snap of a bone breaking echoes from under the bridge. _

_The angels roar with approval as Bryon yelps with pain. _

_Lips peeled back over his teeth, Raffe drags Bryon from out of under the bridge by his broken angle. When Bryon desperately clings to a stone beneath the planks, Raffe uses his other hand to snap Bryon's fibula. Using Bryon's momentary falter in strength to his advantage, Raffe heaves my uncle out from the shadows, flinging him into the creek so that his blood stains the crystal waters red. _

_Hopping over the bridge, Raffe's warriors huddle around him like a cheerleading squad on steroids, jeering at Bryon and goading their leader onwards. _

_Coughing up foul creek water, Bryon attempts to rise from the water, pushing himself up on his hands, but Raffe only proceeds to grab his other ankle and snap it as well in one brutal motion. _

_Bryon howls, casting back his head. _

_"Try running now," is all Raffe says to the crippled man before him. _

_Pivoting towards his warriors, Raffe grins triumphantly, laughing heartily. "What did I tell you, boys? More fun than babysitting Baelan's bitches, eh?"_

_They roar in agreement, stamping their feet on the sand redundantly. _

_"Agreed!" Raffe thunders, eyes glinting coldly. "Now, someone get this monkey tied up, especially tight around the ankles" – a cold chuckle rumbles through the men – "and another one of you, check on Yaoel – that was a cheap, cheap shot, but good God knows it's painful. The rest of you bastards, get back to camp!"_

_As the angels revel in their victory, pounding one another and their clever leader on the back, Bryon drags himself to the opposite bank. For the first time, his face is not blurred with his speed, and I can truly see the weariness in his eyes and the bruises mottling over his body – how long he's been running, I'm not sure, but there hasn't been any chance for him to sleep, and that's for certain. As he collapses on the sand, his lashes brushing the ground and his cloak fanned out around him like wings, I catch a glimpse of something I hope I never see on his face again. _

_Absolute terror. _

_Not the sort of terror you get when you're watching a horror movie or when a group of raucous men tail you through a dark alleyway, but fear in its purest form. _

_Here Bryon is, captured by the one responsible for murdering his sister and hundreds of other Nephilim, surrounded by the angel's lawless warriors, and without a hope of escaping back home to Hugo, to Ogden, to Audiat, uncertain if Raffe will plod onwards to his city and destroy his people. I see the basis of a childhood fear left to fester in the very back of his imagination – the emotion so powerful that, for seconds, I see it, flickering over my vision. _

_Raffe silhouetted by the flames, a gasping, tongueless Nephilim being engulfed by the hellfire behind him. Raffe standing over the lifeless body of a silver-eyed dragon Nephilim even smaller than Belle with a smoldering town behind him. Raffe shoving Sariel into the pit, sending him tumbling down into the blackness. _

_Bryon's breath starts to shudder. Tears pool in his eyes. My heart trembles as a single one overflows, plopping against the sand, with no one at all to pay any heed to his agony. _

The moment the tear collides with the grains of coarse sand, I'm wrenched backwards – but I don't want to go, I don't want to leave Bryon all by himself. I don't want to add to my uncle's loneliness.

_Red dust and red rocks is all I see – the sweltering heat from above forces a glimmering sheen onto the shoulders of all the pitiful souls caught beneath the sun's rays. An entire line of tied humans shuffle together, casting uncertain glances at the angels hovering above them and striding around them. A few miles away, a pearly white building had been erected, the same one that I'd seen Raffe perched on as he'd overseen the slaves in the mines. Not even a hundred yards away, a sparse collection of tents and shoddily built wooden cabins rest in the shadow of a massive marble coliseum. Beneath one of the tents' canvases, a familiar face watches the approaching slaves. _

_"Baelan!" calls Raffe as he descends upon the tent, landing besides Bay and folding his snowy wings against his back. _

_"Raphael," Bay purrs, focusing on Raffe with a cruel expression seemingly sewn into his face. They clap their hands against their forearms in a brief shaking of hands. "I trust you've brought me something good?"_

_Raffe nods, grinning cockily. "They should please you well enough, I'd wager. Plenty of healthy women for the aerie – they are running low on kitchen staff, aren't they?"_

_"That bastard Azrael keeps killing them willy-nilly if they miss a spot." Bay shakes his head grouchily, eyes burning with hatred. "Doesn't understand the use of a good cleaning woman that's not pregnant, that dick. But oh well. What else did you find?"_

_"Many males, most ranging from adolescent to age thirty." Raffe cocks his head to one side, grinning darkly. "Oh, and there's one male I'm going to have to have you break… he's more fiery than any of them I've ever encountered. Ran nonstop for three days before we finally pinned him down, this one did."_

_"Three days?" Bay's eyebrows shoot up. "I imagine he's exhausted, then. Shouldn't be difficult, even you'd be capable of it."_

_Raffe shrugs. "It's what I thought, too, but no – he was kicking and scratching the whole way back even with two broken ankles, and's been nothing but trouble since. Josiah got too close, that poor idiot, and he broke his wing by – get this – pinning the wing knuckle between his bound hands and clutching it to his chest. When Josiah pulled back, he did the breaking for the slave. Gave him a lashing for it, and he spit in my face. Burned his back with the tip of my sword in punishment for that, and he kicked a bucket of water onto the coals. The hot steam blistered my face."_

_"Is he the one with the cape thing blowing in the wind over there, giving Yaoel all that grief?" Bay points towards where an angel fiercely attempts to hold Bryon down by a rope tied to his bound wrists – my uncle is causing all sorts of trouble, entangling his rope purposefully through the legs of angels and humans alike, dragging the angel into tables, and "accidently" freeing a horse that'd been tied to a lonely post. It nickers and gallops off, a few cursing angels flying after it. _

_"Oh, Yaoel." Raffe shakes his head pityingly. "You wouldn't believe what that angel's been through with – "_

_He breaks off as a collective gasp goes around the clearing. Bryon had reared up as Yaoel had drawn too close, yanking his feet up and slamming them into the angel's stomach. Wrenching the rope from Yaoel's hands, he'd sent his captor flying backwards, collapsing himself in a mushroom of red dust. _

_Bay vaults over a table, his brow lowered ferociously. The once-busy tents are now dead silent, watching the angel take on the slave. It's incredibly fascinating, seeing how they interacted then when compared to nowadays. _

_Not even bothering to fiddle with the ropes around Bryon's wrists, Bay grabs a fistful of his gorgeous hair and yanks it brutally until Bryon is more or less standing before him. They stare darkly at one another, their eyes both saturated with the instant hatred a master feels towards a rebellious slave and a slave towards a constricting master. _

_"What is your name?" Bay inquires, his tone all too quiet. _

_Bryon whispers something so softly even I don't understand it. _

_"Simon?" Bay lifts an eyebrow. "Well, Simon, are you going to cause trouble at this camp?"_

_"Afraid I am." I flinch as Bryon gathers his saliva and then spits on Bay's face. "Oops. Sorry. Accident, I swear."_

_Bay's muscles tremble with the effort of staying calm. A beautiful pair of brown dappled wings clench against his back. His smile is creepily tranquil. "To the coliseum with you, boy. Shame, you would've made an excellent miner. But what can I do?" _

_Bay thrusts Bryon downwards, but, unfortunately, Bryon had been expecting such a maneuver. He scampers backwards a few steps to relieve the force of the shove, but then stands proudly, his shoulders squared like a noble warrior's. _

_"Point me in the direction of the coliseum barracks, will you?" he challenges coldly, his gaze just daring Bay to try and make a grab for his leash. _

_Raising his voice, Bay orders, "Someone direct this monkey to the stables. I've got a conversation to finish."_

_Turning his back on Bryon, which, as I know, is a much, much more dangerous idea than he seems to believe it to be, Bay strides back to Raffe, his jaw clenched and his fists balled furiously. Rage glints in his dark eyes, rage powerful enough to lay waste to entire civilizations. _

_"He has a way of doing that to you," Raffe acknowledges, nodding towards Bay. "It only lasts a little while; then you respect his spirit. Hell, I almost regret taking that one in. I almost don't want to see him broken."_

The swift, jarring sensation of being ripped from a dream and being placed in another is almost routine by now – in fact, it doesn't take me long to orient myself, not long at all.

_In the belly of the coliseum, it doesn't look nearly as impressive as it had from outside. Exteriorly, the coliseum seems grand and furnished, smaller than Rome's but just as ornate. Inside, its condition can be related to Rome's coliseum in my times, after it'd been defiled by angels. The sandy area inside is much smaller than I'd expected it to be, not equating to the rows and rows of seating. Everything is poorly maintained and cleaned – angels plop down wherever they desire, fights breaking out through the stands over saved seats and strangers plucking at another's popcorn-like dish. Bay and Raffe lounge in a roped off section in slightly better condition than the rest of the area, leaning over the railing with their wings casually unfurled. _

_"This is a petty gathering," Raffe notes, sighing to himself. "I'll see the wild one – Simon?"_

_"That's what he said," Bay grunts, shrugging. _

_"Well, I'll see Simon's breaking – or demise – and then be on my way." Raffe glances disdainfully around at the coliseum. "I've got more important matters to attend to than this dump."_

_"Suppose you would," Bay agrees, eyes twinkling. "Me? All the entertainment I've got is this dump. Sometimes, I even join in. Sure as hell beats watching other guys rip monkeys apart. Fights break out all the time in the stands, of course, but nothing can be done about that."_

_"They have to get their energy out somehow," Raffe agrees grimly. "When is it going to start? I'm standing up Ariel for this, that woman is a monster…"_

_"All women are monsters." Bay glances towards Raffe. "Stay away from them, my friend. I have yet to meet a female that's all she seems."_

_"Is it starting?" Raffe questions, leaning forward eagerly. _

_Glancing pityingly towards Raffe, Bay nods. "Simon's the third man we have scheduled for execution. You'll have to sit through two –" He breaks off with a roar of approval as an inching, tentative man slowly makes his way through the gates. _

_A bent sword is clutched in the man's hands. Opposite to Raffe and Bay, an angelic warrior vaults over the side, applauded frantically by the entertainment-starving angels. When the sleek, oiled armor of the massive angel is compared to the simple leather pads over the short man's chest, I feel a surge of pity for the man. _

_Onwards and onwards they go, the angel playing cat-and-mouse with his prey. Each time he gets close, angels holler with bloodlust. Each time the man gets away, they scream at their brethren to go after him. Throughout it all, the angel continues at a slow prowl, tailing the helpless man until his severed head rolls over the sandy floor._

_A woman comes out this time, holding a cracked shield. She's much braver than the man, glaring defiantly at the angel and even going so far as to slam the rim of her shield into the backs of his knees like Captain America, but she falls sooner than he had, too. _

_At last, striding powerfully from the flaps guarding the stables or whatnot instead of being thrown through, comes my uncle. A metal bowstaff twirls in one hand, and, unlike the past weapons of preference, I can't see anything especially wrong with it. He wears no armor, no shirt, not even his atypical cloak – a shiny red scar on his chest suggests that he'd gouged it there himself not long ago. Though I don't understand it, a murmur passes through the stands as the angels clap their eyes on the puckering scar tissue. Evidently, the force translating the dialect of the past into a language I can understand doesn't extend to cryptic symbols. _

_"Dragon," Raffe murmurs, tilting his head to one side. "Dragon? Does he think he gets a stage name?"_

_Bay waves a hand dismissively. "They're loving it. If he wants to call himself something special, so be it. Now, pay attention, this will be most entertaining."_

_The angel begins his slow prowl towards Bryon, wings raised menacingly. Instead of wasting his energy fleeing like the first or making cheap shots like the second, Bryon plays the same game, slinging the staff over his shoulders and strolling amiably towards the angel. The crowd seems delighted with the strange new element of equality he adds to the game, the word dragon whispered around the stands. All seem fascinated with the new piece on the board. _

_Bryon takes it a bit further by turning his back on the angel. _

_For the first time, it's the angel that looks uncertain – his sole job is to capture the adoration of the audience as he slaughters his victims, but no one fancies a hero that sleazily stabs enemies in the back. And that, I realize, is the focal point in Bryon's appearance – an underdog, an anomaly after all the supreme angels. Even the cheesy nickname serves its purpose to the entertainment-starved audience. _

_Standing his ground, watching Bryon trail lazy circles around the ring, the angel seems to be contemplating his options, awaiting a moment to strike. He feigns charges and runs towards him, but Bryon doesn't so much as look his direction, earning the angel an excited whoop that ends in a disappointed sigh. Frustrated, stamping his feet against the sand, the angel watches Bryon helplessly. _

_As Bryon crosses in front of Raffe and Bay, he reaches up with his staff and smacks both of them soundly on the head, causing both of the VIP angels to snarl with anger, but causing a roar of laughter to echo through the stadium. Bryon addresses his adoring fans with a charming smile that could melt the wills of any teenage fangirl and a tip of the head. Evidently, the angels are much more similar to teenage fangirls than they'd probably be willing to admit. _

_In a desperate attempt to regain adoration, the gladiator angel charges Bryon for the real this time. As he reaches Bryon, my uncle grabs the railing along the edges of the wall protecting the angels from him as leverage and slams his feet into the angel's oncoming face, sending his helmet flying. _

_Stumbling backwards, the angel lets out a confused cry, his nose crushed against his face. His rage seems to increase by a tenfold, leaving all need for an admiring crowd behind, but Bryon carries on with his antics. _

_"You there, first row, tawny wings and stylish hat?" he calls, saluting mockingly towards the angel he addresses. "I could be wrong, but is that an apple you have in your hand? Ah, yes, it is. I'd love that apple – the food they give you here is awful. Would you…?"_

_The angel stands up, eyes glinting eagerly. "Catch," he rumbles, beaning the apple towards the gladiator. _

_Three things happen in rapid succession – the angel leaps for Bryon with a savage bellow, Bryon slams his hand against the angel's wrist, somehow knocking his sword from his grasp and snatching it from the air, and the angel's head pounds against the sand, joining the two humans he'd decapitated in death. _

_The angel's lifeless body thumps against the ground, his wings blanketing his dead body. Bryon glances down at the blood that'd splattered over his chest disdainfully and drops the sword, acting as if it'd grown too heavy for his hands. _

_As the crowd roars with confusion about the sudden and unexpected turnout, Bryon leans down, nudging the angel's limp body aside, and plucks the apple from the dirt. He rubs it against his pants, leaving a speckle of red and a smudge of sand. Turning on heel to face the angel that'd given it to him, Bryon lifts the apple, as if toasting him. _

_The angels quiet momentarily to hear him speak. "You, my friend, need to work on your aim."_

_As Bryon sinks his teeth into the apple again, he meets Raffe's gaze, smiling darkly as he chews. The crowd roars with both outrage and joy around them, but, somehow, neither beast nor monster seems to care. Raffe is aware that Bryon had been able to lift the sword, not merely redirect its path; however, Bryon is daring Raffe to enter the circle and prove his theory. _

_Winking once to the crowd, Bryon dashes forward suddenly, leaping through the air with superhuman agility until he's perched on the railing in front of the VIP seating. Raffe doesn't flinch as Bryon first forces the half-eaten apple into his bared teeth and then pecks him on the cheek with a kiss. Laughing thunderously, Bryon dances backwards towards the center of the ring, slinging his staff around playfully, the only indication of his dark intent the cynical twinkle in his eyes. _

Sucked backwards, swirling backwards, thrust forward.

_The hallway Raffe dashes down thunders with explosions, dust raining from the ceiling. A glimpse outside reveals that angels flap around fiery comets of red and orange, and each time the comets hit the skin of the earth, it trembles violently. Pathetic human servants stream past him on either side, attempting to escape the violence with ear-piercing screams, stumbling around him as if he's a leper in a crowd – all but one, that is. _

_Bryon steps in front of Raffe, nearly getting bowled over by his velocity. His annoyance is initially clear on his face, but, as Raffe's eyes find Bryon's face, he relaxes, clutching the shoulder of his servant and meeting his gaze intensely. _

_"Leave, now." Raffe glances up at the unstable ceiling skeptically. "It's too dangerous for you here."_

_"And for you," Bryon protests, glaring defiantly at Raffe. "I'm not that much more fragile than an angel – if you're going somewhere, I'm coming too. _

_"Get the hell out of here, Simon," Raffe instructs, voice not soft as one may think, but lacking the rough, commanding tones it would otherwise maintain in a situation of crisis. He glances back to where the last humans disappear. "Get out of my sight and don't you ever come back. Don't you ever let me see your face again."_

_Bryon glances up towards the crumbling ceiling, hesitating, then meets Raffe's eyes with definite softness there. "Yes, sir," he whispers, and then thrusts Raffe backwards. _

_Raffe cries out with anger and confusion as he slides back against the tile, wings spanning out to slow his fall – his cry quickly turns into a yell of alarm as the ceiling collapses, burying Bryon in stone. _

_Raffe sits there for a few moments as the hallway shakes, staring in mute horror at the pile of rubble. With a shuddering breath, he claps a hand over his mouth, shaking his head slowly. Though the emotion in his eyes isn't quite as intense, the shock is nearly what it'd been like the night at the aerie when Pooky Bear had first denied him. _

_Another angel bursts through a window along the side of the aerie, his golden wings tagging him as Gabriel. Roughly, the angel yanks Raffe to his feet, and practically shoves him out the window headfirst. _

_"Get moving!" Gabriel snarls, his tone leaving no room for argument. "This place is going to blow!"_

_And so Raffe flies off with massive flaps of his great white wings, glancing behind him as the building bursts into flame, burning whatever remains of Bryon that may remain. _

_I don't understand how Bryon could survive that – and, evidently, Raffe can't fathom a method, either. Swallowing down the agony in his eyes, he rejoins the aggregation of angels collecting outside the ruins, stomaching his pain to address the troops so in need of a ruler. Leaving Simon to burn in the ruins of the aerie. Leaving his memories of the loyal servant to slip from his mind like they all do. _

Though my heart is still invested in the scene, though I'm raging with curiosity as to how my uncle survived that encounter, I feel myself being dragged backwards and another vision being shoved at me.

_Bryon shivers in the corner of the overcrowded work room, curled up in a blanket as if making pretend that it's his magnificent cloak. Visible through the thin, frayed fabric and his loose, patchwork shirt are all of his ribs. Purple bags hug his eyelids, ringing them like a raccoon. With each rock of his painfully scrawny chest, his breath plumes out in front of him. _

_I recall what Ariel had said about Bryon going for a year without contacting anyone, a year when everyone thought he was dead – though I don't know any specifics, none at all, it would make perfect sense if this took place in that period of time. Not even the humans seem eager to approach him – the glorious beauty in his face had deteriorated as his muscle had faded away, leaving it looking gaunt and dangerous. _

_If I was a mother, this sickly man certainly wouldn't be the one I'd want to carry my daughters from the fire – I'd push him back in. _

_To make things worse, he seems to be fondling a small object – admittedly, to anyone else, it would appear creepy, pointing towards insanity. But it only makes my heart break slightly in my chest – his fingers gently massage up the length of a beautiful red feather, grooming it constantly, preening it into perfection. He never takes his dimly glinting eyes off of it. _

_The rest of the derelict room isn't that much better off – people murmur to one another, casting hopeless glances around the room. It's about half the size of my gym and packed with hapless people. Some are quarantined together, coughing up phlegm, the more recent castouts dragging the bodies of those deceased, murdered by the disease, to a steadily growing pile. Old women rock on their haunches, clutching religious figures, and babies bawl as the sickness claims their tiny lives before they've truly begun. _

_Suddenly, the angel at the door steps aside, and the hatch swings open, admitting Bay and Raffe. _

_"…it's not like I don't understand you wanting another manservant," Bay chats, striding to the center of the room, kicking people aside, "but that last one you had was particularly special – I've never known a monkey to give its life for its master. Besides, all these mangy creatures are sickly with the winter. They don't deal with cold well."_

_"Neither do we," Raffe points out, tailing Bay through the humans that quickly shrink away from them both. At the sound of his voice, Bryon looks up from his pathetic feather, his expression colored with dim, faint recognition. He does not move from his dark corner, however, or stir in the slightest. The only indication that he's paying attention at all is the weak, fluttering bronze gleam in his eyes. _

_"I want one with fire, with strength," Raffe informs Bay, peering out over the men. "Not one that's too shabby around the house, either; I've spent six months dressing myself, too, can't have that…"_

_"Poor baby," mutters Bay, rolling his eyes. "Now, we don't have any rough and tumble ones around here. The ones that've survived this long don't have that sort of spirit left." He shakes his head remorsefully. "Sorry, Raffe, you're going to have to wait until spring comes around and we can snag new, fresh men with hearts as strong as horses. There's no one worth looking at here."_

_"Alright," Raffe sighs, looking reluctant to leave. His eyes scan the crowd, almost as if searching for someone – and I know exactly who. Before he can reach Bryon's corner, his lips pinch as he seemingly scolds himself, refocusing on Bay. "Should we…?"_

_His head jerks up abruptly, almost as if catching an iridescent gleam from the darkness. Every muscle in Raffe's body goes rigid. _

_With one bloodied, cracked hand, Bryon reaches out for his old master, eyes almost adoring as he pleads for Raffe's attention. A savior, a light in the darkness, is all my uncle sees. _

_"Raffe?" Uncertainly, Bay shuffles his wings, squinting blindly into the darkness. "What's going on?"_

_Raffe shakes his head suddenly, breaking Bryon's gaze, squaring his shoulders and straightening his shirt nervously. "Nothing. Thought I saw a ghost. A weak, broken ghost, nothing like the man I knew."_

_Bryon croaks with agony, causing Raffe to pause again, turning back towards him. A single tear leaks down Bryon's face, tracing the sharp contours of his face, and his lower lip trembles with desperation. Whereas perfectly able men struggle to escape Raffe's presence, Bryon, the weakest of them all, strives with all his might to grow closer. _

_"Oh, my God," Raffe whispers, striding powerfully towards Bryon. Seeing Raffe return to him, Bryon lets out a soft, strangled call of something akin to pathetic joy. _

_Raffe cleaves through the sea of people, not casting them any glances to spare, his wings held out threateningly, only to wrap around Bryon. He falls to a knee before his past manservant and the weak creature he'd become, crawling desperately towards the only light in the mass of darkness. _

_Now that Raffe crouches before him, Bryon doesn't seem as anxious to escape. He only smiles at Raffe, eyes gleaming dully with faith. As Raffe studies his battered appearance, eyes lingering over the ribs as mine had, undoubtedly coming to the same conclusion – Bryon barely needs to eat at all. If he's starved, it's because his portion of food has been going elsewhere, willingly or unwillingly. _

_"I watched you die," Raffe whispers, shaking his head slightly. "How are you alive?"_

_Bryon smiles slowly, as if he knows a secret, as if he knows that, millennia later, Raffe will speak those same words to his niece, to me. Sighing in satisfaction, he half-closes his eyes somnolently, smiling as if dazed with happiness. _

_"Alright." Raffe shifts his weight uncomfortably. "Alright. Confidential, I get it. Come, now, it's time to go. Hold still…"_

As Raffe leans forward, looping his arms around Bryon as if to carry him from the musty corner he'd nestled into, I feel myself fading from the vison, its sharp colors vanishing before my eyes – but not like the last ones had been, nothing like them at all.

My gut churns as if somebody stirs it with a wooden spoon, my vision fading into white, my hearing ebbing into static rather than Raffe's warm, soothing tones.

A slow, cold pressure builds in my brain, one like I've felt before. What had triggered it? What had triggered this?

Unlike the last time I'd felt akin sensations in my brain, the pain doesn't grow gradually – it surges forward in a sudden wave, torturing my mind. I try to scream, to bellow out my agony, to let some hoity-toity she-angel in the apartment next to me know of my agony, to get _anyone_ to wake me up, but I can't. There is nothing but pain, pain and static, blanketing my mind and senses with the endless, endless anguish, an anguish that never seems to dull or grow distant, an anguish that has no escape in unconsciousness.

_"Hush," a voice whispers through it all, warm and hospitable. I seek out the familiar sound, clutching onto something in the infinite endlessness. I reach forward almost physically, my hands fisting around silky, silky fabric. _

_"Hush, now," Bryon soothes, his voice growing closer and closer, as if I'm reaching out to him, reaching the plane he's on. "Shh, that's it. Can you hear me, Penryn?"_

_Gasping, I glance up towards him, my head pulsating with a massive headache. A pair of bronze eyes gleam in the darkness so foreign after infinity spent in a white, barren wasteland, blue lights swaying and bobbing behind him. _

_ "Listen to me, Penryn," he urges – the more his world hones around me, the more undiluted grief I hear in his voice. "Listen. I don't have much time, and neither do you. There are things in this world, Penryn, things you don't want to meet – Penryn, I have meddled with the affairs of one of those creatures. I have done things, Penryn, things I do not – cannot – speak of. One of the creatures is there. Please, whatever you do, don't trust –"_

_The world explodes around me, slamming back into white, the last noise I hear in that little dream Bryon's scream of agony. _

* * *

**At last!**

**This story hit 15,000 views. That's incredible. Thank you so much, all those that've kept up with my fanfic this long!**

**POLL: Though the highest status Bryon ever reaches in Raffe's book is that of a loyal pet's – to be grieved over, but to eventually be replaced – it's different for Bryon. In what ways, why, and how does he think of Raffe? **

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	43. Chapter Forty-Two

**Chapter Forty Two**

This dream is so massively different from the past visions that I have much difficulty forcing myself to believe it's credible to Black Wolf's divine interference; something about the point of view I see this vision from isn't like the last ones, as if, instead of showing an expertly directed version of events, I'm seeing it through a creature's eyes – a creature low to the ground and sitting beside one of Raffe's boots, with eerily good vision that follows my angel as he paces around the room.

I get the uncanny impression that, instead of past or future, I'm seeing glimpses of the present.

_The gaze of the creature roams around a standard apartment of moderate size, the type that I'd be overjoyed to rent for college if such a reality were even plausible anymore, furnished in shoddily-painted wooden structures and cheap shag rugs. A queen bed lies in the room the creature is stationed in, and, beyond it through an archway, I glimpse a pleasant little living room. A shaft of moonlight beams through the room, as if cast by the balcony windows; the silvery light paints the walls into shades of powder blue. _

_Something stirs restlessly in the bed, capturing our attention. The creature inspects him with an expert eye – his cream-colored sheets, tousled and wrinkled, are thrown lazily over Raffe's body, only half-covering him. As if sheathed with liquid moonlight, his skin shines, the planes and sharp ridges of his stomach rippling with their own aurora borealis. One muscled arm is hanging off the bed alongside his wings, whereas the other is thrown over his eyes, though I can't imagine why he doesn't simply close the curtains to the balcony window. _

_Though initially, appreciation warms in me at the sight of Raffe in nothing but his boxers, wreathed in moonlight and sheened in sweat, I realize that the creature's eyes seem to linger over his body as mine might've – truthfully, it's probably more an assessment rather than an admiration of the flawless build he – like all archangels – maintains, but I still feel a burn of jealousy at my heart. _

_Just as the creature's vision starts to fade, as if it's nodding off, Raffe stirs again, throwing himself onto his back. His caramel skin is just a shade darker than the beige blankets he wallows in, but the beautiful black mess of hair hanging in his eyes and the burning white of his wings contrast the color theme fantastically. _

_Raffe growls to himself as he tosses back onto his back, going spread-eagle on the bed. His chest bobs with heavy breaths, and the sparkle of his deep blue eyes pierces through the darkness. He only remains in this position for a few seconds before kicking off the sheets and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. _

_Burying his face into his hands, Raffe groans gutturally, the sound amplified, as if the creature's hearing is as sharp as its vision. He remains as still as a statue for a few seconds, kneading into his face and relaxing his muscles one by one, before he stands abruptly, as if having come to a decision. _

_He strides powerfully across the room, muscles stirring in utter harmony, and grabs his jeans from off a dresser. Though it is somewhat of a disappointment seeing his boxers disappearing beneath denim, I can't help but wonder what he's doing in the dead of night. _

_Raphael does the buckle on his pants with a gentle clinking of metal and reaches for the shirt and hoodie lying on the dresser – he falters with his arm halfway, allowing it first to hover uncertainly, then snaking it forward to snatch something off the wood. Although he's speaking in a foreign language, it isn't difficult to figure out that his dark mutters are cusses. _

_The creature curiously focuses its vision, sharpening our focus to reveal he's holding a cheapo digital clock with faded green numbers reading eleven fourteen – past the curfew mark, which would explain the utter silence from outside. _

_Slamming the clock violently back into the table, Raffe rakes a hand stressfully through his ebony hair. I might've found it arousing, the way he unbuckles his belt with one hand or the way he ferociously rucks his pants off his hips, if his expression hadn't been quite so distressed. _

_Kicking off his jeans and leaving them in a heap on the floor, Raffe swiftly strides to the sliding glass door the creature is stationed beside, folding his hands behind his back as he looks outwards. The moonlight pools over his features, illuminating the crumbling barriers he tries to construct, showing me the shutters he attempts to close on his emotions. But they seep out anyway, as emotions tend to do – with a strained, fatigued moan, Raffe bumps his head against the glass and leans into it, grinding his teeth, his face clenched back with pain. _

_An archangel isn't meant to be alone – not for as long as he has, travelling the continent in search of his wings and then me. And now, here he is, surrounded by kin that alienate his gender and reject his ability to process emotion. Naked longing for some sort of company consumes his expression, hinted with splashes of agony and sorrow. He slams his fist against the glass, almost as if he's trying to break it. _

_Gradually, Raffe's breath grows more and more shaky, his breaths growing deeper and catching in the back of his throat. For a horrifying moment, I find myself wondering if I'm about to see Raffe cry. And it looks as if I am – his wings tremble on his back and his fist quivers against the glass. His shoulders heave with each inhalation, and his face holds enough anguish to bring any other man to tears. _

_The short, tentative whistle sounds as if it'd been my lungs that'd issued it – I realize after a befuddled second that the creature had been the one to make the noise, and that the creature is a certain little dragon I know very, very well. _

_Raffe yanks himself away from the window, hand reaching for his sword as if he'd forgotten that his boxers don't have a scabbard, but the moment his eyes clap onto Belle, they soften in a way they never have for me – it's not a look that I necessarily want directed my way, either. It's the way a man looks at his beloved dog, a faithful, stupid companion that doesn't judge a person on what they've done or how many tears they cry, only on how well they can scratch that spot behind their ears. _

_"Hello, little lizard," Raffe intones with a baby-voice, crouching in front of Belle. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm just lonely is all. Am I forgiven?"_

_Belle seems to contemplate that, our sight tilting nauseatingly to one side as if she'd cocked her head. But after a thorough analyzation, Belle squeals excitedly, pawing excitedly at the throw pillow she'd been curled up on. _

_Raffe's laugh is one of the sweetest things I've ever heard. "Come here, little one." He extends a hand towards the floor. "Neither one of us should be lonely tonight."_

_She dashes forward and races up his arm in that rapid manner she has, the violent pitch and sway of her sight making me sick. Somehow, we end up perched on Raffe's shoulder, our head resting against his cheek. Raffe strokes gently at Belle as he strides back towards the bed, crawling back into the sheets. _

_Hopping off of his shoulder as we descend, Belle curls up on the plush mattress, settling in a perfect nook against Raffe's chest. Raffe's heartbeat pounds through us, as steady and calming as the beat of a drum. Belle sighs blissfully, a sound quickly imitated by Raffe. _

_My heart warms at the sight of the archangel and the Nephilim curled together – the ghost of a reflection on the glass shows that Raffe is smiling as he lulls himself to sleep, and that the crest of his wing shadows over Belle, protecting her as her tired eyes blink with sleep. _

_But, as I gaze out of the window, my heart skips a beat. Belle stiffens, squeaking in alarm. _

_A pair of glowing red eyes gleam outside the window, observing in silence the dragon and the archangel together. _

_A thunderous growl blankets over my hearing, one that I initially think is Raffe responding to Belle's distress, but, as the reflection in the glass provides, Raffe blinks in confusion, not utterly certain what'd caused her alarm call. _

_Snarling, Belle stands, her vision narrowing, honing in on the stalker. Its red eyes widen, and, on her reflection, so do Belle's, with their bright shades of bronze and blue. In fact, they seem to burn even brighter, power seemingly fostered in them. I feel myself leaving her point of view, the world fading into utter blackness. _

* * *

I awaken screaming. My lungs feel hoarse and dry – although it's not nearly as bad as it was in Secrem Domu, I begin to cough, hacking to myself, positioning myself away from Audiat's soft comforters.

A soft, worried whistle purrs through the darkness. I peel open my eyes between coughs to see a little dragon perched on the railing of the bunk bed, her tail curling around the bar several times like a slender whip, her mismatched eyes glowing luminescently in the darkness. Seeing that she'd gathered my attention, Belle whistles again, her wings shuffling anxiously on her back.

"Hey –" I cough again, burying my mouth into the crook of my elbow. "Hey, baby, how'd you get in here? Where's Raffe?"

Belle doesn't answer in response, but seems to sigh, as if her nerves are being released. Her eyelids flutter for a few seconds before she slithers off the railing, slinking up to lie beside me. Collapsing on the comforter, her eyes directly in front of mine, Belle reaches out with one tiny paw, resting it against my lips.

I suck in my breath, cautious to break the moment. Raw love gleams in her slitted pupils, as unyielding and unwavering as a child's to its mother. Nibbling gently at my throat with her toothless gums, she wiggles closer, looping her tail around my neck. Belle purrs softly after a long moment of us lying here, staring into one another's eyes, and nestles against my chest, as if seeking my heartbeat to prove that I really, really am alright.

Cool scales slide against my bare skin, and a rough tongue swipes at the skin of my neck, over my jugular vein like a caress – I curl my arms around her, stifling my coughs and swallowing painfully, unwilling to break the embrace despite my burning thirst.

Though initially, Belle had been cold to the touch, her scales chilled and rubbing against my neck all-too-much like a snake, the longer I hold her to my breast, the warmer she becomes. Her body seems to melt to mine, molding against my chest as if she'd been made for this very reason. Sighing happily, I stroke a single finger down her spine, shaking off the nightmares that'd gripped me, trying to convince myself that the hellions I'd seen had just been in my sleep.

The sound of a balcony door being thrown open rips me from that blissful stupor, making my eyes snap open.

"Penryn!" Raffe sounds profusely worried, almost panicked. "Penryn! Penryn, where are you?"

Raffe thunders into the room, his blue eyes wide and anxious, scanning the area viciously for any threats. Abundant claw marks stretch up and down his bare chest, their crimson umbrage gleaming in the blue light he sheds over the room. The moonlight haloing him, Raffe searches the apartment for me, swinging his head back and forth like a dog searching for a scent before finally finding my nook on the bunk beds.

Every muscle in him relaxes, like someone had eased the tension on a taut bowstring. "Penryn," he sighs, his sword drooping out of its ready position. "Have you seen – oh, hello, little lizard."

Belle, having crawled around my neck like a scarf, her head poking through my hair, makes a curious popping noise by my ear.

"What's wrong, Raffe?" I shuffle to the edge of the bed, throwing my legs off the side and allowing them to dangle limply. "What's going on? Why are you all cut up?"

Raffe studies me imperviously, eyes slipping and sliding up and down my figure. Throughout the ample time I humbly provide for him to provide an answer, he doesn't utter a word, simply standing in the middle of the room with the muted colors of the stained glass painting his wings.

"There probably is a good reason for you to be out of bed, I presume," I prompt judiciously, reluctant to spill the contents of my eerie dream to him. "It's well past curfew. Have you been fighting? Raffe?"

The bang of another door slamming open makes Belle hiss in alarm. Spectral and nearly pitch black in the darkness, Ariel ghosts forward, her golden-striped wings held threateningly over her head. An ethereal black nightgown billows around her legs and shadows trail in her wake, visible for mere seconds against the light before fading into the inkiness of the dark room.

"Raphael!" Ariel snaps, baring her pearly teeth like a cat. "What in Hell's wrath do you think you're doing here? Breaking the curfew? _On the first night_? In Penryn's room, you licentious bastard?"

"Hey!" I bark, protesting against the libels. "He wouldn't be here if it wasn't important! Look at him! He's all cut up!"

"Which could've easily been the offspring of the fool trying to hump his reflection in the mirror," she maligns. Ariel glances with cold apology in my direction. "No disrespect intended, Miss Young, but I have seen your lovebird do less dignified things."

"Quit provoking him!" I shout back. "No one's going to benefit from anything if you two get in a pissing contest! We're not going to figure out what attacked Raffe and we're not going to figure out what he's doing here! Give him a chance to explain!"

Ariel visibly reins herself in, stiffening her spine and balling her fists, snapping her wings back by her sides and holding them at an unusual rigidness.

"Explain, Raphael," she lilts. "I shall not partake in judgment before I hear your half of the story."

"Hellions." He glares at her, nearly as furiously as she had at him. "There were hellions. Half a dozen of them, creeping around. Aren't you supposed to be blocking those demons from this place, Lady Lioness?"

"Jesus, you guys shout a lot." In through the doorway hobbles another friend, his eyes ringed in purple splotches. "Stop having spats while people are trying to sleep. The reason the little lion-angels weren't on the pig-bats' asses were because they were busy checking out Sariel and Bay and a bunch of other angels that just stumbled in. By the way, Ariel, a bunch of angels just stumbled in. They're all collapsed in the cafeteria. 'Cept for Bay, he's selecting a top floor suite for us."

"Hugo!" I cry, vaulting from the top bunk and landing quite unsteadily, wincing as my ankle yanks violently, as if the floor had deflected its weight. I brush it off, ignoring the burn of Raffe's incredulous gaze at my back, and loop my arms around Hugo's neck. His hair beads are cold against my cheek.

"Hey, you, glad to see you weren't raped." Hugo strokes my hair, his nimble fingers gently pawing a tangle out of my mane. "Or murdered. Or forced into a Slave Leia costume. Or ripped apart by hellions. Have you ever considered living a normal, nonthreatening lifestyle, Rynny?"

"Call me that again and you'll be wishing I did."

"Yes, ma'am," Hugo chuckles, rocking me back and forth slightly.

"Oh, so, Pigeon-Bat sticks, but that doesn't?" Raffe growls. "You are picking favorites."

"Yeah, so" – Hugo repositions my hug so that his arm is casually thrown over my shoulders – "I have favorites, and you're not one of them. Shocker. Shouldn't you be making sure there's no more hellions out and about? Aren't you an expert at killing those? Those and Nephilim?"

I jab Hugo in the ribs, causing him to shoot me an injured glance.

"There's no more," Raffe grunts, shifting his weight uncomfortably. "I checked everywhere. Probably would've notified a couple of your cherubs if they'd been out and about."

I notice that his blood runs in crimson rivers down his back, staining his jeans. How deeply had the hellions sliced into him? How many times? And how much blood has he already lost?

"Okay, then, in that case, Raffe, we need to get you patched up." Ducking beneath Hugo's arm, I span the distance separating Raffe and I, ignoring Ariel's curious gaze as I lift Raffe's arm, inspecting a brutal swipe of talons along his bicep. Though scowling slightly, Raffe responds to my gentle nudges and taps obsequiously as I look him over.

"I'll heal by myself, Penryn," he husks abasingly, casting self-conscious glances towards Ariel.

"Get over yourself," I scold, swatting away the hand he sends to push me back. "If some dangerous human bacteria gets in your open cuts, you'll be hating life. You're whiny enough as it is."

"Penryn." He sounds straight-out embarrassed now.

"Goddammit, Pigeon-Bat, let your Penny Poo Rynny tend to your wounds!" Hugo barks, turning on tail and hobbling off. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to find Bay. Ariel, I suggest you talk to Sariel and get this whole cherubs-failing-their duties business sorted out. He was father of the pride for a long time and can probably offer some great tips."

"I think I might." Ariel cocks her brow. "After all, it would've been disastrous, had the hellions broken in and seen Raphael with another companion. God only knows how Bryon would've reacted. Now, Raphael, I will excuse this break in conduct this once, but don't consider this a viable escape route next time." She pauses, wings shuffling awkwardly by her sides. "And I do apologize for my raucous, assuming behavior not so long ago. It was incredibly informal of me."

"I'm not a saint, either, kitty cat." Raffe shrugs, causing me to accidentally poke his bicep scratch. "And I've done… things. Things I'm not proud of, not anymore. Now, be gone with you, Penryn's going to fuss over me."

Ariel gives me one last meaningful look. "My heart goes out to you. He's very, very sensitive when it comes to people poking around in open cuts, and he's not so fond of needles."

Raffe hisses softly, glaring after Ariel as she exits.

When the door clicks shut, I swivel around to Raffe's back, inspecting his wounds with difficulty in the low moonlight, gently guiding his wings to open and close so that I can inspect the occasional slashes through his feathers. "So, what's the deal with her? Another avenging angry girlfriend? Or is it worse?"

"I trained her." Raffe grunts with objection as I prod at something I'd assumed was a huge fleck of dirt, realizing that it's a hunk of his flesh that's still connected to his body. "We didn't often see eye-to-eye, but she was good, I'll admit. She always had a fighting spirit – taught me that recruits brought from the slave huts weren't always miserable maggots. So, once she split off on her own path, I recruited Josiah."

"Why is she an archangel and Josiah… not?"

"Hmm." Raffe seems to consider this, his breath jarring as I slide back his hair to study a nick at the back of his neck. "Well, honestly, Josiah is a bit of a debated subject. She-angels say he's an archangel because, well, I trained Ariel and she became one. But the rest don't think so."

"What do you think?" I whisper, standing on the tips of my toes to get a better angle on his neck-cut.

"An archangel is a leader, Penryn." His head turns slowly, allowing me to catch the slightest gleam of his blue eyes in the ivory moonlight. "Do you really think Josiah is fit to be a leader? That he even wants to be a leader?"

"Yeah…" I shake my head decisively. "No, that'd point to even more chaos, wouldn't it? Poor guy. Must be tough on him. Hey, Raffe, I'm going to need you to sit down on some chair somewhere. I'm going to start boiling water so we can clean these out."

"Penryn, really, I'm fine," Raffe huffs, rolling his eyes.

"What, afraid of some hot water?" I smirk at him over my shoulder as I head into the kitchen, causing the doors to creak eerily. "If you want, I'm sure Belle will hold your hand through it all."

A distant whistle of approval sounds from the main room.

Smiling to myself, I grab a towel off a rack on the wall, pleased to find that it's plush and nearly spongey. Pulling off another one, I stack them sloppily beside the stovetop and ruffle through Audiat's cabinets in search of a large pot to hold.

The kitchen is oddly furnished and designed; it's rectangular in shape, with a sink and bar area on one side and an oven, stove, and microwave on the other. At the end of the compacted little length, another window sits, this one lacking the gorgeous stained glass design, instead a clear window with a little pillowed bench at its foot, perhaps for the need of spying on the neighbors. Dented pots and pans line the walls in all shapes and sizes – evidently, they hadn't made their own pots and pans as they'd built this fantastic building from the ground, but rather, they'd gathered what they could. It puts them in a softer light.

Selecting the least battered of the reused pots, I fill it to the brim with water from the sink, thanking God for little things like plumbing, and set it on the blazing stove. The water hisses in protest before settling into a low, angry growl, simmering softly.

To help pass the time, I duck into the bathroom and find a bottle of medical alcohol inside of a first aid kit hidden beneath the sink. I stuff a few Band-Aids into my pockets and a few good old fashioned bandages.

After what feels like hours of lounging around in the immaculate kitchen, the water spits and froths, snarling at me. Upwards it pounces, leaping towards me in great jumps as I drop the towels into the water and let it boil for a few seconds more before sliding the pot from the burner's scalding surface.

Stumbling from the kitchen hefting the heavy pot in my arms and pinning a bottle of medical alcohol against my side, I stagger towards Raffe, seeing that he'd plopped down on one of Audiat's couches.

"You're bleeding everywhere," I scold. "I'm going to have to wash your blood out of the couch now. Get up."

"You told me to sit down!" Raffe huffs indignantly, glaring at me over his shoulder and staying stubbornly on the seat. "Am I not supposed to listen to you anymore? Is that what you want?"

"No," I snap, setting the scalding pot on the table for the briefest moment, only taking the time to place a hot pad before readjusting its position. "What I want is you to have the common sense not to bleed all over Audiat's furniture. Now, just hold still." I plop down on the couch beside him, reaching towards the pot to fish the steaming hot towels from it. "And be obedient, please. It's going to sting."

"Not until you dump alcohol all over me." But Raffe scoots a tad closer to me, holding out his arm facilely. Cautiously, I pluck a white towel from the boiling water and wring it out, causing water to pounce for my hand again. One droplet reaches me, causing momentary pain before it cools, still causing me to wince. Glaring at the pot or treacherous liquid, I turn to Raffe to find him studying me.

"I'm going to clean each one out with this first." I shake the still-damp towel around in my hand. "Make sure there's nothing left behind, then I'll disinfect it and bandage it. Okay?"

"Sure." Raffe strokes Belle's head with a single finger until she yawns and creeps off. Despite her dismissal, his hand remains shoved out towards me.

"Okay. Hold still."

My hands haven't been this tender in a long time. Carefully, I dab around the scratches at his bicep, gently wiping away the blood, biting my lip as I brush up against his raw, exposed flesh. But, as I begin to dip into his slices with him remaining as steady as a rock, I feel myself gaining both courage with the towel in hand and respect for Raffe's amazing control.

After having thoroughly cleaned out every scratch in the particular swipe, I study it as best I can in the low light, yearning for a single candle to see by. "You tell me, Raffe, does that look clean?"

"Yes. I'm practically sparkling."

Nodding in satisfaction, I gently nudge his arm back to his side, instructing him silently to rest it. Dropping the towel back into the pot, I take ahold of a few cotton balls and the alcohol. Gesturing his arm back up, I scoot closer to him, unwilling to let any other substances fall onto Audiat's furniture.

Carefully, I dribble the alcohol onto his open cuts, mopping up the excess before it can drip from his arm. This, he reacts to – the muscles beneath my fingers go from limber to tight as steel each and every time a drop leaks into his cuts. Once, he audibly grinds his teeth as I pour some of the alcohol into his largest scrape.

"Ow," I sympathize, looking up at him in guilt. "I'm going to have to do this a lot, Raffe. If you need to grunt a little to let out your inner agony, it's okay, I won't gossip about it. Just don't squirm."

"Offer noted." He arches an eyebrow. "So, are you just going to have me bleed out through my arm, or do you have bandages?"

Glaring dryly at him, I lift the supplies sarcastically.

We don't say much else – occasionally, he'll grunt as he'd seemed so sure he wouldn't, and every so often, he requires a verbal command on what to do. I wince as I clean out chunks of debris from his back and shoulders, and massage his intact skin as I trickle the alcohol into his deep slices. Somehow, I manage to either wrap him in bandages or press monster-sized Band-Aids to his skin. At last, the only things to be patched up are the ones on his wings and the ones on his chest.

"Raffe." I tap his shoulder gingerly. "Lemme get that one on your chest, alright?"

Without comment, Raffe swivels around – but not to bare his chest to me. His hands hold my waist firmly and drag me across the couch until I'm between his legs, staring into his eyes. I'm so close to him that, if I listened hard enough, I could probably hear the bat of his eyes.

Uncertainly, I consider straddling him as well – my legs are awkward where they are, and seemingly without a place in this tense moment he'd created. But, deciding that I don't want to tempt him any more than necessary what with Lucius on my ass, I slip off the couch, kneeling on the floor in front of him and reaching up to gently press at his wounds.

My heart pounds as I clean the blood that'd cascaded down his front, following its trail nearly all the way to the edge of his jeans. Though I try not to focus too hard on it, I can't help but notice the way his abdomen flexes beneath my hand as I soak up all the blood caught in the ridges, nor do I miss the way his face abruptly becomes unnaturally stoic as my hands linger on his hip to wipe away the last little droplet.

"Hey, Raffe?" I whisper, returning reluctantly to the cut across his pectoral.

"Hmm?"

"What can kill an angel?"

Raffe pauses hesitantly, seemingly unwilling to share this information. His eyes study my face impassively, and I instinctively understand they're searching for some confirmation on what to share with me, a monkey, the enemy of his race. I give it to him gladly, smiling up at him, allowing warmth to soften my features.

"Promise me you won't tell any of your monkey friends," Raffe murmurs, leaning forward, as if it'll disengage any angelic eavesdroppers. His powerful hand clutches mine inside it, crushing pressure administered to me and the towel. His eyes wander my face, perhaps still looking for sincerity.

"I'd never tell anyone anything that could hurt you." I wish with all my heart I was lying, that I could easily tell Obi and his men how to at last slaughter the angelic bastards – but if it means putting Raffe in the line of fire, there's no way in all of Hell.

But as I lean forward, eager to hear, Raffe leans backwards, shutting his eyes and swallowing, as if to reinstate his control over his emotions. Awkwardly, I pull back as well, embarrassed that I'd pushed him too hard.

Before I can lean too far away, Raffe hands tighten around mine. With a smooth movement almost resembling a cat's nimble paw swooping forward, Raffe puts his lips at my ear. Perhaps not all our neighbors are angelic, though that seems to be the case to me, and any information regarding Raffe's vulnerabilities must be kept secret from them, locked away, never to be meddled with again.

"Angel swords," he murmurs softly, voice startlingly akin to a caress, "can do the trick. Hellfire, too. Certain poisons are absolutely deadly – most of those that are have demonic roots. Lucius would probably be fatal, considering Bryon makes me feverish for a few days. Although regular knives don't really make too much of a mark on us…" Raffe leans ever closer, almost as if he wants me to feel his pulse. "Don't tell anyone this, Penryn, but if beheaded and then set on fire, angels die. Same thing happens if you gouge my heart from my chest, severing all of its arteries or cut the body into many, many pieces. But other than that, I'm a god."

"Demigod," I correct breathlessly. "And I'd say more like a vampire."

"Vampire?" Raffe repeats incredulously, drawing back to blink. "You can't just decree that I'm actually a mythical creature whenever you feel like it."

"Hmm," I acknowledge. "Are you sure there's no such thing as vampires, Raffe? Absolutely certain?"

"Why?" Raffe watches me through half-lidded eyes as I trade out the hot towel for the alcohol bottle and the thinning cotton ball pile. "Afraid that something's going to suck all your blood from your body in the middle of the night?"

"What if I am?" I challenge, shooting one last mischievous glance over my shoulder at him before herding the cotton balls together. "I think that'd be a pretty logical thing to be frightened off. Nobody wants to be a shriveled up husk."

Unprovoked, Raffe pinches the back of my neck roughly, his calloused fingers causing me to flinch and nearly bowl into the pot of hot water. Cursing, I wheel around, holding the noisome bottle of alcohol threateningly in one hand.

"What the hell was that for?"

Raffe grins at me, amused by my reaction to his harmless fun. "I wouldn't worry too much about vampires, Penryn. Your blood tastes awful."

"Hilarious," I sigh, scooting back between his legs. "Also, slightly creepy. How do you know what my blood tastes like, hmm?"

Raffe's laughing chest is much harder to disinfect than any of his other wounds, but I don't have the heart to tell him to cut it out. I smile to myself as I work, wiping up all the excess alcohol with the cotton balls and dabbing gently at his slashes. Their white fluff always comes back stained scarlet.

As I reach for the last of the bandages, I notice that he'd quit his sniggering, instead sitting in silence once again. Even as I compare using a couple of jumbo Band-Aids or somehow adding another bandage to his collection, I feel his dark gaze on me, feel the analyzation from a creature in the shadows. In the corner of my eye, I notice his posture has changed as well – his arms now drape over the back of the cough and his wings follow suit. It makes him seem regal, somehow – a lord of the shadows, with a voice like black velvet and all the treachery of a wolf.

Of course, I remind myself, Raffe isn't the lord of shadows or anything geeky like that. He's Wrath of God, but not… not that otherworldly.

"What are you thinking about?" Raffe wonders in a voice as gentle as the first twirling snowflake in winter, shaking his head slightly and dispelling the illusion of imperial beauty.

"Escape routes."

"_What?_"

"Well, if you're a vampire," I explain knowledgeably, "then I'm not sticking around to become breakfast. However, you might like breakfast, and want breakfast to stay until morning. So, escape routes."

Though perhaps not openly tender, there is warmth in Raffe's smile, as if he thinks his weak filter can still delude me even after all this time. "Oh, now, abandoning me, are you? Unfortunately, you'll have to wait until morning. Curfew, remember? Can't escape just yet. "

"Mmm." I rise from the ground, plucking the cooling disinfecting towel from the pink water. "Raffe, I have to clean out your wings. How should we do this?"

"Well, first off," he deadpans, "you're not sticking ugly Band-Aids all over my feathers. And second off" – he rapidly flips around, hooking his knees over the back of the couch and allowing his head to dangle off of it, his wings extended on either side along the cushions – "you can clean them out like this."

"You're going to make all the blood rush to your head," I scold, the plume of moonlight tumbling down Raffe's neck vying for my attention.

Raffe seems confused with my warning. "What?"

"Um… nothing." Maybe angels, I decide, falling back to my knees, have special veins to stop things like that, so they won't have a head rush while diving. Gently running my fingers along the band of muscle cresting over his fanning primaries, I bite my lip, thinking, trying not to focus on the way Raffe stares at me as I do.

"Do you have any cuts on the other side?" I wonder, flipping my fingertips beneath his wing and massaging around the knuckle area. As I hit hot flesh and Raffe's wing flinches, I add hastily, "Oops, sorry, I guess so."

"One hurdle at a time." In a motion that appears awkward, Raffe pats his wing where the largest cut is. "This hurdle first, thank you."

My hands work softly around his feathers, careful not to disrupt their beautifully cascading harmony. "Sorry about cutting up your feathers, by the way." I glance guiltily towards the only imperfection on his wings and their jagged edges. "They'll grow back, won't they?"

"Next time I molt, yes, they will," Raffe chuckles, eyes glinting in the darkness. "You know times are bad when the Evil Queen is apologizing to her enemy, though."

"Well, maybe the Evil Queen realized that the lone, sexy wanderer was no threat to her." I purse my lips, lifting my eyebrows thoughtfully, staring down at Raffe with a lecture in my eyes. "Maybe she realized that they could work better as allies. That the wanderer already had one friend – why couldn't he have more?"

"A friend?" Raffe scrunches his brow. "Penryn, I don't even consider _you_ a friend."

My fingers freeze over his feathers. "Ouch."

"No, I meant –" Wearily, he shakes his head, sighing heavily, which looks rather strange upside-down. "I meant that you're more than a friend. I don't have friends."

"You just have one," I add, cocking my brow at him.

"No," Raffe chuckles defiantly, "I don't."

"What do you call Belle, then, Tough Guy?" I challenge, shooting him a confident look, knowing that any mention of the little dragon should be his trump card.

Raffe's head bucks, his eyes wide. "Where is Belle?"

The damp towel drops from my hands, sliding off Raffe's wings and onto the floor. "I thought she was with you."

"Obviously not!" Raffe snarls, rolling off the couch, raking his hands through his hair. His eyes rove intelligently through the room, landing upon the cracked apartment door. "She left. She couldn't have gone far, though, because she would've checked in on us."

"What?" I stand, scooping Emilio's knife up off the coffee table before striding after him towards the doorway. "How can you be sure?"

"I know Nephilim," Raffe answers simply, throwing the door open, revealing the bare honey-colored hallway and its shadowy embrace. Without hesitation, he stalks out into the hall, bloody wings held threateningly by his sides, and freezes. Cautiously, I trod up to his side, glancing warily down the hall.

Seeing nothing more than a corridor veiled in darkness with a single shaft of moonlight cleaving through the ebony, cast from an open window at the end of the hall, I stare at Raffe, puzzled.

"What the hell," he breathes, rocketing forward towards the window.

Jogging after him, I struggle to fix the incompatible pieces together in a logical manner, unable to comprehend Raffe's strange behavior until we reach the end of the hall and I catch sight of the corpse.

It's of an angel I've met only once at the dinner party hosted by the Watchers and Wives – Bezaliel, the best friend of Daisy's husband, Penemue. My stomach jolts treacherously as I struggle to keep a cap on my emotions. I cup my hand over my mouth, but a small sound of grief escapes my lips.

"How did it happen?" I whisper, eyes wide, staring at his tranquil face – if it hadn't been for a ruby droplet sliding down his wan face like a tear of blood, I would've believed he was sleeping, with his hands folded as if praying and his wings a bed beneath him. His eyelids are sealed over the shockingly bright pair of grey eyes he hosts, never to be opened again.

"Vampire," a chilling voice sings from the darkness. "That's what the two of you have been discussing, hasn't it? Strange… almost marks you down as suspects to the crime."

Raffe doesn't waste the time assuring the demon he pins to the wall is indeed Lucius – one arm streaks out, its broad fingers snaring around his snowy white throat and squeezing. Lucius's impact against the wall makes a large bang, easily heard inside the neighboring apartments. I glance at them nervously, unwilling to meet the residents with the dead body placed so suspiciously before us. Raffe has enough of a bad reputation…

"What did you do to him?!" Raffe snarls, pulling Lucius back from the wall only to slam him back into it. "Why did you kill him?!"

Lucius melts into shadows, appearing in the darkness behind Raffe. "Please use that desperately pumping brain cell of yours and think. What would I gain from murdering a Watcher? Why would I reveal myself to you if I did? _Those_ are good questions."

"What happened to him?" I demand, ignoring Lucius's egging on, despite Raffe's rigid form. "What do vampires have to do with it?"

Smiling icily at me, Lucius strolls over to the corpse, kneeling before it. He tips up the angel's great head so that the shadow of his chin diminishes, revealing a clean pair of puncture wounds punched into Bezaliel's flesh. "Vampire bite. All legends are based on truth. Perhaps a Dracula inspiration is running around in the dead of night." He focuses on the cut, poking and prodding at it, making a soft noise of awe.

I arch an eyebrow at him, watching as he feels at Bezaliel's arm. "A monster? What did this?"

"Did you bring those hellions here?" Raffe thunders, balling his fists, stepping forward threateningly.

"Heavens, no," Lucius purrs, still raptured by the dead body before him, "hellions are my brother's thing – I much prefer dogs to rats. They were on orders to observe only. Why would they attack?" His yellowish white locks shift as he cocks his head. "Even you wouldn't excite them enough to do anything that brash."

"What the hell is going –" Appearing at the doorway of an apartment a few doors down, my grandfather freezes, his gold eyes beacons in the night, like a pair of stars in the night. "No," he slurs after a second, collapsing against the wall with only an arm to support himself. "No, no, no, no…"

"Raphael, I swear I am going to wring your neck," Ariel snarls, throwing open her door, "if you don't have a brilliant explanation for –" She breaks off, eyes landing on Sariel, whose denials of death of his friend have deteriorated into wordless sobs, buried into the crook of his arm. For the first time on her face, I see boundless warmth, glossed over with a generous coating of empathy.

"Oh, dear," she sighs breathily, throwing her arms around the bigger angel, patting him consolingly on the back between his wings. "Oh, my. Hush, hush, hush, let's get you down to Thea, alright? She's staying at a place down a few floors, okay, Sarie?"

"That's cute," remarks Lucius boredly as he rips open Bezaliel's shirt, inspecting his bare chest with fascination. "Ariel, your cherub watchmen have all been dispatched by a creature of unknown origin or species. On your way down, contact the monkey and tell him there's been a murder – he'll be tripping over his own feet with eagerness."

"Shall do." Ariel deliberately guides the drunkenly staggering Sariel down the hall, making the smallest of distances very slowly. I watch my grandfather go, yearning to comfort him as Ariel does but knowing that none of her words are comforting, and therefore none of mine will be.

"Have any of you witnessed anything out of the ordinary?" Lucius murmurs, resting his ear against Bezaliel's abdomen. "Do you have any information about this creature? Because, whatever it is, it will grow hungry and kill again."

"What is it?" Raffe questions, pacing in place anxiously, his eyes flicking around uncertainly.

"Well, knowing that'd just take out all the fun in the chase, wouldn't it?" Lucius laughs chillingly, his cold voice making me shiver. "Whatever it is, its presence was enough to provoke an entire herd of hellions to attack, and it was strong enough to overpower the ones you didn't quite manage to, Wrath. This is merely a pit stop to refuel the gas tank."

"How did it kill him?" I wonder, cocking my head inquisitively, cautiously kneeling beside Lucius. My fingers touch the coarse rug, balancing my weight as I lean over the corpse of the Watcher. "Poison, maybe? The bite wound isn't bleeding any."

"Hmm, that's what I thought too," Lucius hums, bustling over the corpse, "but that wasn't the only benefactor. The vein is shriveled, sucked dry, exactly like a victim of the Count, but this –" Lucius scrapes a single filed nail over Bezaliel's skin, causing a slow, gross ooze of red from the dead flesh – "proves that he hasn't been completely emptied. My best guess is that is that the poison stopped the heart and paused the flow of blood, and, to cover up the potent smell of that good old red liquid, as not to alert the very dangerous occupants of the top floor suites, the beast sucked his vein out."

"But you said the creature needed to eat," Raffe rumbles, cocking his head. "It didn't take a chunk out of Bezaliel."

"No." Lucius smiles coldly, his face a mask of spiteful glee. "That's the greatest part. It ate his soul. His poor wife won't be seeing dear Bezaliel on the other side."

"Why are you telling us this?" I whisper, eyes narrowed scrutinizingly as my gaze rolls up and down Lucius's bony white figure. "What do you have to gain from sharing information?"

"Because Wrath is a waste of time and energy," Lucius hums, probing down Bezaliel's legs, "but you know something you're not sharing with me. I have my ways of finding things out, little Young." I barely have time to slam my eyes shut at the whirl of movement before I feel Lucius's cold breath billowing over my lips, feel the cold tip of his nose brushing against my cheek. "I advise talking."

Raffe's bellow of anger is shortly tailed by Lucius immediate removal and the sound of breaking glass.

"Do that again and I shall initiate my interrogation methods on you, Wrath." I cautiously open my eyes to see a freshly broken window behind Lucius as the demon straightens his tie disdainfully; however, despite his ireful cadence, his expression is cool and curbed, unnaturally smooth.

Stomach squirming with disgust as Lucius's black tongue moistens his lips as he continues to slaver over the corpse, I stand, slinking to Raffe's side with the knowledge that, though I'd never admit it, he's the only one that might be able to protect me from the demon; humiliating as it may be, in this case, Raffe can take care of me more than I can myself. Almost as if aware of my thoughts, Raffe slings his arm over me possessively in a vain attempt to hide me from Lucius.

"Fascinating. Now, we do have business to discuss." Turning away from Bezaliel, Lucius folds his hands behind his back, gazing out through the broken window, the moonlight wrapping him in its tender embrace. "Young, my threats are real. It will kill again. Don't make me have to be the next one to shed blood tonight."

Raffe's muscles clench, but, thankfully, he doesn't stir, remaining utterly still.

"Bryon," I confess, trying to stomach the guilt roiling in my stomach, the feeling that I'm betraying my uncle by exposing his communication with me. "He appeared in my dream, told me that he had a secret, told me that he'd… messed with the wrong sort of crowd, that he had so much to tell but he couldn't, and that one of the creatures that he'd meddled with was here." My eyes widen. "Do you think he meant…?"

"Obviously." Hugo strides down the hallway, rolling up the sleeves to an oversized flannel shirt as he approaches the corpse, looking like a man of strict business. "Raffe, Bay is tending to Belle's wounds, don't worry about her."

"What?" Raffe barks, his fretful expression tying my heart in knots.

"What happened?" Lucius demands, turning his head so that I can see the twitch of his lips as they move swiftly to form words. "What did Bryon say?"

"He broke off with a scream, and…" Still desiring not to indulge on the secret of my next dream, I hesitate. "And I woke up. It was like he'd been interrupted by something, the creature, maybe."

"What are you hiding?" Hugo inquires professionally, staring at me with crude speculation, his mouth hardened into a firm line. "What else is there?"

Grasping at straws, I decide to profess another… not secret, exactly… true, the deeply informing conversation I'd partaken in with White Wolf isn't a precise secret, but it hasn't been brought to light yet.

"White Wolf mentioned it too, when he was watching over me." I swallow, trying to ignore the way that every gaze except for Lucius's lands on me – he doesn't stir, the demon, remaining as still as a block of ice. "Said there were creatures beyond either of our comprehension lurking in the shadows that night. Said that he would protect me as best he could. But nothing ever happened. The creature didn't appear."

"I'm willing to bet that it did," Raffe breaks in, studying me intently. "Remember why we left? Because something with enough mojo to take out one of those… 'gods' was creeping around the area. The creature probably was the one that murdered the wolf thing. And before then... Scales was quite anxious to herd us through certain areas in our trip to the mountains telling BS stories about demons. He never slept well, always taking midnight walks. Maybe there's a reason for that, and that something's been on our tail. Whatever it was… do you think it followed us here?"

"Almost certainly." Lucius's indifferent tone is numbing yet painful, as if, with every word, he drives an ice-cold needle through my skin. "And my, have we stumbled onto a big case. Something with enough power to abolish White Wolf, king of beasts…? It's Christmas."

"You've figured something out." Hugo crosses his arms, settling his weight on his heels. "Mind sharing, Sherlock?"

"Oh, it has nothing to do with this current situation, Holmes."

Hugo scowls at Lucius. "Stop flirting with me and spit it out. I belong to Bay, and knowledge belongs to the public."

"You inflate your opinion of yourself and my opinion of you." I find it eerie that Lucius does not seem to respond in any way to Hugo's jeers, the very things that trip up practically everyone else I've ever met. "I have merely understood why, although Black Wolf and White Wolf are mortal enemies and will kill on sight, Bryon and Audiat are lovers. We just saw an example, what with the Lion and the Lioness. Crisis unites nemeses."

"Is that the right plural?" Hugo wonders, scratching at his chin. "I don't know, English is weird. So is that – _everything_."

"Oh, Penryn, isn't it amusing, watching them squirm?" Lucius chuckles, steepling his fingers in front of his face. "What I mean is that at some point in their lifetimes, Black and White Wolf will come together to face a common foe. As best I can explain without releasing any crucial plot details that your character is oblivious about, Bryon and Audiat are embodiments of that likeness, that need to draw closer to achieve a common goal, but with a much more… _romantic_ spin on the story."

"I see what you're saying." Hugo grins snarkily. "That they're united to fight this thing, or that, eventually, they will unite. That this creature has sufficient power to overthrow both of their reigns by the time it reaches adulthood – it is a juvenile, by the way," he adds for Raffe and I's sake. "The bite on Bezaliel and the scratches on Belle both point to them being inflicted by a creature not yet of age."

"Is she okay?" I ask, stepping towards Hugo. "Belle, I mean. Did the creature attack her?"

"Yeah." Hugo nods a few times. "Nipped her once, too, right on the foreleg. She's feverish, but she seems to be fighting it pretty good – falling into a deep sleep, maybe, but that's just what a little body needs to patch itself up."

"Are you sure?" Raffe questions, the arm wrapped protectively around me tightening, seeking comfort I willingly provide by looping my arm around his waist.

Lucius's skeptical face is silhouetted by moonlight, the silver stars lining his face with their ivory gleam, sending ribbons of platinum through his hair. After dropping his final statement, he extends his black wings and soars out the window, disappearing into the starry sky like a shadow, giving us no time to answer his observation.

"Keep your valuable close, Wrath; Ariel's going to conduct a witch-hunt for this killer. God forbid anything you care about get whipped up in her storm."

* * *

**Oh, how I love this. I know that with the school year and the length of this fic, it's lost some of its grandeur, but I'll never stop writing it, especially as, one by one, the final pieces are starting to fall. **

**POLL: Due to an unfortunate short circuit in writer thoughts, I don't have much for this – just write down your predictions and we'll call it even. **

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	44. Chapter Forty-Three

**Chapter Forty Three**

Slowly, Hugo plucks the phone from his lap, his thumb dancing swiftly over the screen. As the metallic ring purrs from the speakers, he positions it absentmindedly against his face, eyes glued to the footage.

"Hello?" chirps Audiat's high, floaty voice.

"I've got the film," Hugo murmurs grimly, watching the ground beneath his cameraman's feet shake as a bloodcurdling roar pierces the sky. "It's a bit foggy, but it only adds to the suspenseful aura." Softly to himself, Hugo whispers, "_Damn,_" as a pair of bronze eyes flash in the dark, choppy depths of the waters off the coast of Maine, their appearance quickly followed by a great muzzle shedding water and a massive sinuous body rising from the black sea like a monster.

"Did Bryon do okay?" Audiat whispers nervously, her voice soft and worried. "I mean, did he do better than last time? I mean… not that he didn't give it his all when he fought Famine, but…"

Hugo chuckles breathily. "He got squished like a pancake last time, Audie, but you don't have to worry about him now. I'm sending you the link now – you can see his glorious might for yourself. Jesus, he's even bigger than the fucking Horse. It won't be long before he gets too big, like Ogden. And that filly was so not prepared for the sea monster rising from the depths."

"Don't call him a monster!" Audiat chides. "He doesn't like that word. I've seen him called much, much worse, and I'm sure you have, too, but you know how he reacts to that one."

"Yeah, yeah, his Achilles' heel, I know, trust me, accidently let it slip out once or twice," Hugo grumps, recalling sour memories. "Is the footage what you're looking for? Check your emails; I sent a few extras of Raffe sic'ing a few hellions and then a clip of him crawling around late last night. You guys should really invest in video cameras that can't be hacked, by the way, but those are just background dancers, so pull up the star of the show. I mean, I don't know when the Horse is going to try and attack the eastern seaboard again, or where, but I can always get my people to try again."

Audiat's laugh tinkles like bells, its tinny, captured version from the speakers even making Hugo smile. "Oh, no, I think this is – oh, wow." She falls silent for a second, awed by something. Through the phone, Hugo hears the ear-shattering roar he'd been listening to moments before. "Wow." Warmth coats her amazement in its rich, buttery layers. "My God. I've forgotten how beautiful he is in action. Look at that – they call angels the perfect predators. If I was the Horse, I'd have turned and ran, too."

"You have a strange choice in men," Hugo critiques, watching the sea spray ricochet off of Bryon's bronze scales as the two beasts collide with one another, scaled paws braced against bladed hooves. "Look, I've got to go. Things are a bit hectic on this end. I'll try to hook this thing up to that projector machine you guys have in the dining hall."

"Alright, I'll let you go." Audiat's cheerful voice sounds slightly reluctant, as if she lusts for more time with Hugo – and, with complete honesty, his heart would leap should there be such an option. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

"You too." Hugo grins, leaning his head back, ignoring the blazing question in Belle's eyes as she lifts her elegant head from her pedestal by the window. "Won't be easy, taking care of Uriel's rebuttal. If you need footage from Raffe's surgery, let me know, I know a guy or two that confiscated all security tapes. But… you've got Godzilla versus Kicker the battlehorse, so it shouldn't be too difficult to convince the angels that Raffe's been nobly combating a big, bad dragon all this time."

"Hopefully not." Audiat sighs nervously. "I'm glad Emilio slipped over. At least, if anything happens, he'll – my God, I'm keeping you from your hectic situation!" she laughs apologetically. "I'm sorry, I'm just talking for the sake of talking. I'll let you go."

"Thanks, Audiat," Hugo smiles, chuckling into the phone. "Remember, if you get too nervous, breathe into a paper bag. Fare thee well."

"Take care!" Audiat squeaks, before her end of the line goes silent.

* * *

I glare at the thousands of steps I've gone down in loathing, puffing my breath irately, imagining the agony I'll have scaling the staircases after a healthy breakfast on the ground floor. Unfortunately, the she-angels' building abilities, though they are impressive, aren't adept enough install petty things like elevators. More than once, I've seen a munificent angel snare any humans making the long trip up the staircase to give them a lift, but, evidently, being a downwards traveler, I'm not as high a priority – and, when it becomes my turn to venture heavenwards, I'm certain I'll be grateful for their preference.

Leaning on the railing, I tip my head towards a trio of maids – at least, I assume they're maids. Perhaps out of indifference, perhaps out of benevolence, the angels seem to not fret over the professionalism of their human employees, merely asking them to dress neatly and to clean neatly. And this grouping of friends is dressed very casually indeed, laughing and chatting amongst themselves.

"Who is she, you think?" whispers one of the girls.

"Well, obviously, she ain't an angel," guesses the guy, shrugging his shoulders as he clops up the stairs. "Think she could be a demon?"

"A demon?!" shrieks the other woman, rolling her eyes. "What sort of demon would she be, then?"

"I dunno." The dude shrugs, his words being the last ones I care to hear before they drift out of my hearing. "For all we know, demons are the good guys. I mean, angels sure as hell ain't what they're made out to be, ain't they? Not all of em, least."

_Demons are the good guys. _

Recalling the icy swipe of Lucius's tongue inside my mouth, I shiver, dreading a day when demons can be considered the glorified heroes of any battlefield, no matter how bloody, and against any foe, no matter how vile. Sighing to myself, I peer down the long cascade of stairs still awaiting my descent, grateful that, though there's many floors left, most of them are behind me.

"Hello, Penryn," purrs Baelan, jarring me from my train of thought as he rises from below, weaving through the crisscrossing stairs. Gliding upwards like a bat, he hovers before me for a few magnificent moments like a dark angel before dropping to the ground like a stone. His moment of shadowed beauty lost, Bay bashfully closes his wings, as if embarrassed with his lack of elegant landing sequences.

"Hey, Bay," I greet, heart soaring at the chance to escape trotting down more steps. "What are you up to?"

"Hugo wanted me to get out of his hair." Helplessly, Bay shrugs. "I'm just looking for someone to talk to. Where are you going? Where's Raphael?"

"Chatting with Ariel." Copying his gesture, I roll my shoulders, remembering how they'd strategized over war maneuvers and politics and the value of an entire Nephilim army, and, no matter how interested I tried to make myself appear, I kept falling asleep until tromping down hundreds of stairs without my angelic escort was the only way I could possibly keep my eyes open. "I'm headed down for the dining hall, though. Can you give me a lift, or are you going up?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Bay reassures, smiling – had it not been for the uncertain sway in the taciturn angel's eyes, I would've considered ending the conversation there and hopping into his arms.

"What's the matter?" I inquire, cocking my head at the awkward way he shifts his weight. "Is something wrong?"

"Bezaliel's untimely death is public, and has made the front pages." Bay shakes his head slowly. "You appeared the same time one of the beloved Watchers met the bitter end – I'm not saying," he adds with a hasty cadence, "that I deem you guilty for what befell upon him, not at all, but others may. If I were you…" He hesitates.

"Yes?" I prompt.

"If I were you, I'd wait until Sariel was fit enough to accompany, or until Thea returns from her mad search for the killer." Bay shakes his head firmly. "Being closely knit and highly social, she-angels tend to be judgmental of strangers – best for their first glimpse of you to be beside your family and a fundamental part of the inner workings instead of a sketchy loner, the daughter of a madwoman." His eyes widen sheepishly. "Ah, apologies."

"You're speaking the truth, my friend," I chuckle gravely. "So… should I not eat, then? What do you think?"

"I think I'll go downstairs and get us both some food." Bay's eyes light up. "I'll say I'm getting food for Hugo and I, which wouldn't be much of an oddity, and then I'd run back here and snag you and we could just find some nook somewhere. I don't know much about you."

"What if Hugo actually wants breakfast?" I question, feeling slightly guilty to be taking the boy's share.

"Then he can get it himself," Bay dismisses, rolling his eyes. "I'm not his housekeeper. Stay here and I'll… do that. What floor is this?"

"Um, I think it's –"

Without another word from me, Bay seems to discover the answer to his own question as he scans the walls, and simply unfolds his wings and leaves, ducking downwards with a considerably greater amount of grace than he had arrived with.

Leaning on the rail and watching him spiral downwards, I ponder over the strange, standoffish Fallen angel. Apparently, he hasn't always been this way – memories of the old Bay, a wicked torturer with the sole job of making the lives of everyone around him miserable, cause me to shiver. Perhaps it's the reminiscences of his own bloody past that create his carefully constructed barriers.

After all, it can't be easy for the Fallen to get along with others – the last time he saw most of the she-angels, I'd say he was still in that frightening stage in his life. The fact that he's male in a group of tight females must be intimidating, as must the lingering knowledge that he's the only Fallen angel at the aerie. My heart plucks with pity for him.

It isn't like he's a timorous creature in nature – the first time I'd met him, he faced Hugo's panic, Scruffy's wound, and the oncoming horde of thousands of cherubs without second-guessing himself once. His presence is pleasant and veracious, though at times awkward. Socialization may not be his forte, but he is truly a good person, I decide, beneath all that mysterious aloofness – perhaps what makes the sociable yet morally challenged Hugo quite so attracted to Bay.

"They have pancakes," booms Bay's voice from below, startling me – I hadn't expected him to return quite yet. Again, he stumbles gawkily in his landing, but, if he blushes, his reddish skin prohibits any visible sign of it on his face.

"You were back quick," I note, raising an eyebrow. "What, are you some sort of Speedy Gonzales among bird people?"

"Bat people," Bay corrects, "and not really. You're only on floor fifteen; anyone would've been quick." Holding two doggy bags in one hand, he wraps an arm around me, the band of steel very gentle as it secures me against him. Had he not been so blatantly gay for Hugo, I might've been slightly embarrassed by that.

"Are you comfortable?" he asks, smiling benevolently at me. "Are you prepared?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, Bay." I glance towards the pancakes clutched in his other hand. "Just keep a tight hold on those, okay? I don't want breakfast to land on the head of some poor sucker."

Nodding in consensus, Bay extends his leathery black wings with a whooshing noise, his dark gaze studying the stairs above us and the path he'll have to cleave. Jogging slightly to the railing, Bay launches off of the staircase, establishing the tight hold I initiate around his torso. We fall for mere seconds before Bay catches air beneath his wings and flaps upwards, sending us up on a swift coil towards the sky.

As Bay displays his great grace and steadiness in air, twirling upwards more than flying like a ballerina in the air, I wonder if flying is like driving a car for angels – everyone can do it, but some people are better at it than others. It certainly explains how, although he's bad at landing, Bay swoops and ducks, veering out the way of descending angels with much more elegance than Raffe's ever shown in the air. Not that he's not an efficient flier – Raffe's just not a beautiful one.

To my surprise, Bay drops off at simply an intersection of the zigzagging staircases instead of some corridor or nook or cranny – no hallways lead somewhere remotely adequate for a picnic breakfast, no hallways lead anywhere at all. Still landing with his stumbling dance, Bay sets me down, however, as if we've arrived.

Confused, I glance around, wondering if we're going up to the thirty fifth floor or back down to the thirty third. Seeing my expression, Bay smiles.

"I haven't just dropped us off in the middle of nowhere." Setting the doggy bags down beside me, Bay approaches a blank wall and knocks around at the corner. "The she-angels were hasty have this place built, and brash in their math. Twasn't till after they'd built the frame of the skyscraper that Metatron double-checked her work and realized that their nice round number of fifty floors was one story too many."

I glance at the brass engraved plate screwed onto the stairway, reading the numbers of thirty five and thirty three. "Where's floor thirty-four?"

"It was boarded up and forgotten." Bay smiles as he peels open a few planks of wood, causing the wall to swing open like a door and the wallpaper to crease at the hinges. "There aren't any floorplans or anything on floor thirty four. Just three long, wood-paneled hallways. It's a perfect place to simply think without the rush and confusion of a hellish life."

"How do you know about this place?" I wonder, slipping after him behind the wall. "How many other people know about this place?"

"I honestly have no idea." Bay takes my hand and helps guide me through the mess of pipes and scratchy pink insulation. "I found it last night after hearing Belle's squeals of pain coming from inside a wall. There's a bit of a glass mess in one of the hallways, and a few dead hellions, but I'll clean it up."

"How did you know about all that stuff about the thirty fourth floor, then?" I inquire, watching as he slips out of the fluff and into a large, open space at the end of the hall.

Guiding me between the last set of pipes, Bay shows me the great, long hallway. Unfinished splintering wood sheathes the floor and one wall, the only source of light being the floor-to-ceiling window that facing the outer walls of the Triangle. Wide and bare, the hallway is rather calming with its desolate surroundings and simple elegance.

"Believe it or not," Bay chuckles, slinging the pancakes over his shoulder, "I do speak to people. You're not my only acquaintance. Angels are especially chatty when they have secrets, you know."

"Where did Belle break through the glass?" I wonder, scanning the long hallway for any sign of a break in the tinted windows. "Is it not on this wing?"

"No, it's not, but it's quite drafty in that corridor, very unpleasant. Where do you want to sit?"

Bay and I end up spearing our pancakes with plastic forks in the approximate center of the hallway, gazing out towards the farmlands, watching the little specks of people moving through the stalks of wheat and corn. The sky is grim and grey, the clouds blanketing the sky, as if reflecting the dismal mood hanging over the horizon. Though we initially eat in utter silence, Bay seems to grow uncomfortable with the lack of speech, as if he believes that I am not able to handle the quiet, or perhaps that it's only quiet because of some fault on his part.

"What are you thinking?" Bay inquires, staring down at me whilst shoving an entire pancake into his mouth. Though his tone and expression illustrate an aura of absolute graveness, it's of utmost difficulty to keep a serious façade as he chews on his pancake, plastic utensil stabbing another slab.

"About the view from here." I smile out at the field. "Nothing, really. It's nice to not have to think every once in a while."

"I concur." Bay massages his pancake into a little plastic cup of syrup. "And with all we've seen, it can be helpful to stop reliving memories and readministering past tortures. Emptiness can be blissful. I understand why some bargain away their emotions entirely."

"Mmm. I suppose, but it's also our emotions that make us who we are." I glance sideways at him. "Bay, is it alright if I ask how you and Hugo… met? Got together? That sort of thing?"

"It's not confidential, if that's what you're wondering." Glancing wistfully at a syrup-steeped pancake, he leaves it to rest on his paper plate, assumedly for when he finishes speaking. "Up in heaven a long time ago, people started hearing rumors about a human hero named Hugo, one capable of killing angels and selling their belongings away. I was sent down here to slaughter the great and powerful Hugo. I did not expect lanky, silver-tongued 'Alvis' was actually my fabled killer, especially as 'Alvis' showed me around and extended his hospitality to me with a sense of quirky goofiness. I was completely unaware he was sending me on wild goose chases for much longer than I care to admit."

"Was Bryon aware of the wild chasing of this goose?" I wonder, curious about my uncle's reaction to Hugo's pet angel.

Bryon shakes his head slowly. "No, no, not until I fell."

I shift my weight, crossing my legs in front of me. "Can I ask why you fell, or is that too private?"

"To some Fallen, it might be private, but I honestly could care less." Bay takes a thoughtful chomp from his pancake. "Heaven grew impatient, eager for this Hugo to fall. Unbeknownst to me, they sent down another sniffer, this one much better at doing its duty. It tracked Hugo down and confronted me about him. We argued and I claimed that my loony little Alvis couldn't be Hugo the powerful. I'd grown quite close to Hugo back in the day, something that I eventually learned to call love, so of course I defended his life as best I could. Our arguments grew so wild that Hugo walked in on me, eyes alit with curiosity, and was jumped by the other angel. The angel broke one of Hugo's ribs. Enraged, I pinned him down and pummeled him. That was the day my first feather fell."

"Did they send anyone else after Hugo?"

"No, I made sure of it."

I stare at him, waiting for elaboration.

"Before all my feathers could fall, I brought back the angel's head after burning it beyond recognition, claiming it was the human hero's, and then I presented the angel's sword, asking if they'd sent another angel to slaughter, which they all hastily denied. I returned back to Earth to 'gather up my things' and I never came home. I doubt they even noticed I was missing."

"And so you and Hugo have been with each other ever since?" I guess, smiling.

"Well…" Bay hesitates. "We weren't together, not at first. Just as he'd grown smitten with me in our time together, so had I, but I refused to allow myself to be lead astray by him, even when my last feather fell to reveal these things." Bay flexes his black wings in explanation. "Scoured the Earth in search of a way to regain glory, I did. Sought help in the Nephilim King, even, in my desperation. But with everything he knows, not even Bryon could fathom a way to return all my feathers to their rightful place."

"Are you at peace with your wings now?" I stare at them, marveling upon how different they are from Raffe's old ones, despite the fact that they're both bat wings. "I mean, you sure can fly well in them."

"Good question." Bay closes them up against his back. "I prefer feathers, but these serve well enough. I don't adore them like I did my other wings, but at the same time, I don't despise them, either. It's just… limbs. Besides, should we ever find a way to give me my feathers back, Hugo has every single one tucked away in a trunk somewhere."

"Really?" I scrunch up my brow. "He has all your feathers? Like, he has all the little downy ones and everything?"

"He made sure of it." Bay nods, looking pleased. "Has them all counted, too – goes to his secret bunker, wherever it is, and counts them once a year. One time, he freaked out because he'd lost one, then he realized that it'd gotten tangled in his hair jangle things. I think he still carries it with him, but I could be wrong."

I smile at Bay. "You two are seriously really cute together. I hope everything ends up okay for you guys."

"I do, too." Bay gives me a wise look from his shadowed face, seeming concerned. "But enough about me and that attention hog. How are you doing?"

Taking a minute to mull over an answer to his question, I gaze out over the fields, watching the little ants of people scurry about in what looks like giant games of tag or hide-and-go-seek. "I – I don't know, Bay. I really don't."

"How do you feel?" Bay tilts his head to one side, wiping away a bit of syrup that'd gotten stuck on his chin. "How do you feel at this very moment?"

"Right now?" I laugh hollowly. "Confused, mostly. I'm not sure what I can do. According to Lucius and Hugo, there's a monster on the loose. Bryon is who knows where, off to fight some big pony that has kicked his ass before, Audiat is probably up against Uriel and all his goons, Raffe is – honestly, I don't even know, but he's probably freaking out on the inside. Even freaking Belle is hurt. And, on top of it all, outside this little radar of perfect, the world is dying. I don't – I don't know what I can do. I guess I'm feeling kind of callow, kind of helpless."

"What would help you feel less helpless?" Bay questions, watching me through his eyelashes.

"Oh, uh –" I blink a few times thoughtfully. "I… haven't really considered that."

"Consider it now," Bay instructs gently.

And so I do.

"I'd like to know what's going on, and find a way to make everything better," I decide.

"What's stopping you from heading down to the library and rustling through books?" Bay tilts his head to the other side like a curious puppy. "I am not very intelligent. I'm not smart at all, in fact. But even I can find what I'm looking for in Metatron's archives when I spend the time to look through it all. If it is your naiveté in this world that irritates you, do something to change it, and you place yourself up with the best minds of the time."

* * *

Audiat had brought the pair of high heels with the loudest click for a good reason – hopefully, if a god does shed his light over this cruel world, the slow, confident tapping will mask the staccato pounding of her heart as it jitters inside of her chest.

Her face is a mask of cool control and her wings are held still and confident against her back, yet inside, her belly is hot with nerves, squirming as if filled with coiling snakes. Though Uriel decision to put her before the entire aerie had been exciting when the news had first been delivered, after further thought, Audiat now sees that perhaps it hadn't been as much of a gift as she'd first thought – the more abundant the angels, the more dangerous it is for anyone to dare confront them or their beloved.

Finishing off his introductory speech with a winsome grin, Uriel raises a hand towards Audiat. "Please welcome dear Audiat, female from the she-aerie, come to share grave news with us!"

Audiat refuses to allow the petty introduction to waver her veneer of calm, smiling beatifically towards him, despite the once charming grin played across his face turned into a wolf's foul sneer. Words like "female" instead of "sister" rub her the wrong way, make her want to slowly claw Uriel's eyes out beneath her impenetrable composure.

As the archangel slinks to the back of the stage to observe in the shadows, Audiat wheels to face the angelic horde, her hand tightening around the remote control to the PowerPoint slideshow Uriel had graciously provided her. And, in this moment, turning to the hundreds of critical he-angels simply dying for a chance to throw her to the hellhounds, Audiat pulls her serenity unto herself, swallows down her bundle of nerves, and stomachs the tremor of fear. She has the floor. The only reason she'll lose it is if she screws up or if she performs her job perfectly and makes Uriel nervous.

"Greetings, fast, feathered, and furious!" Audiat calls, smiling out over at the crowd yet maintaining the icy distance in her eyes, a frosty glaze she'd learned from her mentor so long ago. "Time is of the essence, as I understand it, so I'll do my best to make this quick; it has come to my attention that a rumor has spread like wildfire throughout this and many other aeries regarding Raphael."

A murmur ruptures the otherwise respectful silence, snippets of gossiping conversations heard above the buzz, but Audiat waits without comment.

"Now, I think that, throughout these years" – Audiat shrugs – "you've gotten to know my feelings towards that brute. I don't like him and he doesn't like me, we both accept that and get on with our lives." Audiat doesn't wait for the buzz of conversation to come to a cease before continuing. "However, seeing his current unjust and biased unpopularity, I have decided to give the benefit of the doubt to that archangel. First and foremost, I assume you all know what a Nephilim is?"

Audiat clicks a button in her hand and the PowerPoint blazes to life behind her, opening on the page of the sea water as black as obsidian, spraying grey mist at the stormy sky. Her finger rests on the button, awaiting the moment she can push it again and initiate the video's start up, showing these fools the awesome might of her husband.

"Yes, yes, those mythical beasts wandering the hills." Audiat imitates ghostly noises, waving her wings about in poorly feigned fright. Her expression stiffening as her wings clip back by her sides, Audiat tilts her head to one side. "As much as I wish our problems were pint-sized, in reality, they're so much worse."

The button taps, and the roar of Bryon echoes through the room, silencing the excited whispers. In brilliant seven hundred pixel quality, he rises from the depths like a terrible sea creature, the waves billowing around his neck and the lightning crashing around his horns like a crown forged from the heavens themselves. Gasps echo around as, when Bryon shakes out his mane and roars a challenge to the sky, exposing his great red maw, the camera zooms out, at last showing them the scale Bryon has to the soaring cliffs of Maine and the Horse of the Apocalypse perched on the edge.

Inky water laps at his scales as Bryon slowly emerges from the depths of the water, his bronze eyes blinking rapidly, the slitted pupils seemingly searching the shore aimlessly with their difficult-to-follow gaze. It only adds to the appearance of a monster in the brilliant footage Hugo had provided her with. Swiftly, Audiat taps the button again, pausing it just as Bryon whips his tail from the water, catching the massive waves it creates in the frozen screen.

"You know," Audiat decides sarcastically, scrunching her brow and pursing her lips, "I think I'd notice if one of those were creeping around in the middle of night snatching up children. Raffe was very, very disappointed to learn that you thought his job was taking down little demons when in fact –" Audiat resists smiling to herself at the perfect timing of her pause as she starts the video again, not even requiring to turn as Bryon's roar bellows over her shoulder again.

Horror blankets the angels' expressions. They stare in mute awe at the beast before them – can they see it? Can they see Bryon's perfection? The perfect predator? Or do they merely see an enemy rising from the gloom, same as any other, without any beauty or elegance.

"Raffe, by the way, is not a Fallen angel." One of Audiat's eyebrows perk. "He and I are both perplexed as to why you might think that. I don't know why you might've believed that our most rigorous archangel was its most sloppy. News flash, my dear friends: he's been roosting at the she-aerie."

"I saw him!" shouts one angel from the back angrily, causing a roar of ruckus and rebuttal.

"How can we trust you?!"

"He had black wings!"

"Is that even a Nephilim?!"

"You lying bitch, I saw him with my own eyes!"

"Why is the Horse there?!"

"Why would he go to the she-aerie?!"

One man accosts the platform on which she stands quite violently. Audiat watches with cold fascination as he approaches, barreling past the protective line of wingless Nephilim Emilio had smuggled in as a guarding force. Delicately dancing forward a few steps, Audiat stares down at him as he scrambles forward. She watches patiently, allowing him to hook one hand onto the stage before stabbing the tip of her heel through his hand. Howling, the angel recoils, delivered neatly to the clutches of her guardians.

Turning her back on the chaos in the crowds as the unanimous political party begins to split into two separate entities, Audiat moves calmly back to her placement on the stage, squeezing her eyes shut tightly to keep from breathing quick or speeding up, to stop herself from twirling around to the conflict. It takes infinite patience for her to move collectively as she turns back to her audience without any outward displays of nervousness.

The crowds are caught in turmoil.

Serenely, Audiat lifts her remote, holding it threateningly in one hand while smiling benignly, scaling up the volume with a dial. Her expression blanketing into one of neutrality, she clicks the button and watches as the speakers blast the remnants of the dragon's menacing roar and the Horse's answering whinny over the crowd, sending them skittering like beetles, clutching their hands over their ears. She shuts it off quickly, before anyone truly grasps what'd happened as their eardrums had exploded.

"I'm sorry." Furtively toning the volume back down to its usual measurements, Audiat cranes her neck out, frowning in the direction of the speakers. "They shouldn't have been that loud. Uriel, can you get someone on that? Thank you. Now, a lot of you have brilliant questions, and I'm going to do my best to answer them, if you'll stop bickering and let me explain. Will you let me?"

Audiat waits, feeling like an impatient mother as she stares coldly out at the scorned crowd, waiting until the angels drop each other from the headlocks and wrestling holds. A trio of angels ringing around a wine casket do not settle down, as well as an officer in the front row causing hell with his men – her guards take care of the officer, whereas a familiar flash of white wings peek from the shadows of the room to silence the angels. Most angels are compliant, slinking awkwardly back to their seats, as if unsure how to react to a female's dominance.

"Thank you." Audiat sighs with false happiness. "Now, I'm not sure what many of you were saying you saw – him outside an aerie? Demon wings? All I know is that, as of a few days ago, he had snowy wings, and this is my proof."

Audiat skips onto the next slide, a short, silent video of Raphael beating up some hellions. She begins to play it, watching with minute interest as the oaf shows his bullish strength, ripping a demon's head from its shoulders and sending them flying in opposite directions. The few of Raphael's men that aren't too drunk to see straight all yell with approval at each demon he stomps on or rips up or stabs to death. In the brief moment of her required silence, Audiat finds Josiah in the crowd, trying her best to remain indifferent to his nervous expression.

"Hmm, yes." Audiat glances towards the screen to avoid his gaze, nodding a few times. "That time stamp in the corner? You can't edit those out of a video." Praying that none of the less-than-tech-savvy he-angels will call her bluff, Audiat turns back to them. "This was last night, friends, and those white slivers on his back?" The video ends behind her with its brilliant closing scene, Raffe taking to the black sky with his snowy feathers. "Those are his wings, feathers and all."

Growing rather bored with the skeptical whisperings of the angels, Audiat tilts her head to one side. "Oh, yes, and then there's that other question – what the hell is Raphael doing at a female aerie? Could be that if he had been the one to walk up onto this stage instead of me – well, would he be in one piece?"

A reluctant, guilty silence hangs over the room.

"So, a short recap before I continue." Audiat closes her hands behind her back and paces back and forth, smiling breezily at the crowd. "Raphael was not fraternizing with Daughters of Men in his absence – quite the opposite, actually. I would play a clip of the Nephilim, but I haven't seen Uriel make any move to fix the volume, so I'll leave it lie. As far as I know, Raphael has not Fallen, and his sword is allied to him, not sensing an ounce of Hell's influence." She shrugs innocently. "You know, folks, he might even have returned back to your aerie by now if it hadn't had been for the Horse of the Apocalypse somebody put on his ass."

This truly causes a ripple of conversation. Angels clutch their goblets tightly, leaning forward, entranced by this sudden turn in events. The idiots clustered around the wine barrels stare at her with glazed eyes, whereas the more intelligent, less drunk angels talk amongst themselves with quiet, reserved discussion.

Having flipped back a slide, Audiat gestures towards the Horse visible in the back of the screen, beyond Bryon. "This is the Horse of Pestilence, of Conquest, of Victory. It prowls over the east seaboard, waiting for a chance to crawl up onto the beaches and claim land as its own. At the moment, this Nephilim – codenamed the Dragon for obvious reasons – is immersed in a turf war with the Horse and is the only thing stopping the Horse from seeking Raphael and ripping up our aerie in the process. That, I suppose, could be another reason he's steering clear – if Raphael can kill one of those beasties, the Horse can make short work of it."

"So what you're saying," booms a barrel-chested individual from the intelligent group, "is that Raphael has forsaken his men to track down a Nephilim, and now, he's not coming back because someone released one of the Horses on him? Didn't he slaughter all the Nephilim, sweetie pie?"

"He did," Audiat agrees, nodding solemnly, glancing towards the luscious blonde monkey lounging at the angel's side. "But, unfortunately, a whole lot of someones have been finding great difficulty keeping it in their pants." Audiat shrugs, pursing her lips. "And now, Nephilim are getting cranky with their overworked mothers, throwing fits with their deadbeat dads, and crushing aeries with a flick of a tail. Even you all have to have noticed the aeries dropping like stones for unexplainable reasons – Raffe's had his schedule full."

Audiat refuses to allow herself even the smallest signs a sly grin to break out across her face as they murmur amongst themselves. They had noticed; and, with the help of that sole protestor, she'd placed a considerable dent in Uriel's campaign, one she hadn't even considered.

"So what is your proposal in all this?" a skinny angel questions, this one considerably more intoxicated. "You want us to… what? Go swarm this beast? Take out the Horse? We can do it, we can!"

Drunken cries of agreement echo through the hall. Before the seed can plant itself in many of their brains, Audiat deprives it of its sunlight.

"No, that's an awful idea, you'd only get in Raphael's way," she chides. "He already has to maneuver around the Horse. What makes you believe that you'd be anything but hindrance to one who's been doing this for millennia?"

"We could overpower it!" cries another excitedly, blinded to the disappointed and dismissive mumbles of his fellows. "There are hundreds of us and only two of them!"

"Until a hundred of them come creeping out of the shadows to protect their leader," Audiat points out, knowing very well that, should their leader be attacked, many more than a hundred will answer Bryon's call. "If Raphael wanted backup, he would've asked for it. His strategic mind is excellent, therefore, I trust his decision to face the Nephilim on his own; it would be perilous for us to challenge a beast we know so very little about. Do you really believe we should go against the Wrath of God's advice?"

"He is a war leader," loudly acknowledges one with maroon wings, tilting his head optimistically. "Why hasn't Raphael contacted us before now? When can we count on him returning?"

"Raphael hasn't had time to drop by because, between mopping up all your messes and avoiding those out for his blood, he hasn't had much free time," Audiat informs crisply. "However, the purpose of my visit was not only to share this information with you; he's hosting a banquet at the she-aerie. I have a list of all those invited to attend, and, should your name be on that list, you will return with me to the she-aerie on the dawn of the second day from this point – the only reason he hosts it at our aerie instead of yours is out of wariness of the Horse."

Mumbling excitedly to one another, blinking blearily and baring wolfish grins, the angels pound their fists on the closest furnishings, eager to hear the list – but Audiat has no intention

"It makes you wonder, though, doesn't it?" Audiat hums, drumming her fingers over her bottom lip. "All of these demons… the ones hunting the humans? Where the hell did they come from? The only way out of Hell is through the Pit, and Lord knows that Uriel has that area covered."

Audiat pauses, gazing out at the crowd that'd gone still as statues, watching the lethargic gears slowly begin to churn in their intoxicated brains.

"Also, I wonder how the Horse got out of the Pit in the first place, and why all his brothers are chained up in Europe," Audiat wonders innocently. "You'd think that Uriel would've noticed something like that, considering it's his duty to guard the gates of hell, after all." Chuckling with a shocked sort of cadence, Audiat furrows her brow, as if thinking. "I mean, at least, I'd like to believe he would've alerted someone, told them to go track these things down, to keep the Horse from ripping up his only opponent in the political battle out of honor if nothing else. Did no one know about the Horse?"

An angry buzz travels through the regimen of Raphael, their eyes swelling wide with something they all believe to be putting together themselves – after all, she's just a pathetic female spouting the facts, they're the intelligent ones, piecing the puzzle together, realizing the sabotage attempt themselves.

"Strange, isn't it, that all these creatures are escaping his notice?" she continues. "Or maybe they're not escaping him. Maybe he's just turning a blind eye on the creatures – letting creatures wander free, letting them frame Raphael, letting them track Wrath of God down and rip him to shreds. Or, of course, maybe it's just some ridiculous coincidence, right?" Audiat cocks an eyebrow. "Just something to wonder about…"

And with that note, Audiat flicks on the video of the two beasts battling one another on the shore and turns on heel, smiling slyly to herself upon noticing that the furious bellows of Raphael's men and all the others with a speck of dignity as they spit insults at where Uriel had once been – her thin smile turning into a fierce grin, Audiat realizes that the archangel had slipped away in the heat of the moment, perhaps fearful of the aerie rising up against him.

Glancing back at the rioting crowds tearing one another apart, Audiat quietly approves of his decision.

* * *

Six heartbeats. Only six, beating inside the snow-covered fortress. Crisp prints stamped into the white illuminate two more, but far off, reveling in freedom from the binds of protecting the madwoman.

The task is simple. The task is facile.

A glance to the sky reveals that the sun reigns high.

The monster shall not come, nor God's slave.

The sun is a veil. Crumbling the flowers to ashes. Blinding the foolish. Allowing the pure to act unseen.

His growl of satisfaction pierces the all-too-quiet of the white.

The madwoman wails like a wounded animal, at last sensing the wolf's presence.

* * *

**I've got nothing to put here at the moment. I'll come back and edit. Maybe something about Bay. Or maybe Hugo. Who knows? I might even edit something in about Black Wolf. **

**POLL: Audiat's idea is to bring the party to Raphael and the rest of the aerie – which is immaculate in theory; if other angels of importance see Raphael taking a brief break inside the aerie and have a short conversation before he takes off to defeat the Horse and the Monster, acting as a goody-goody hero. But there are definitely a lot of things that may go wrong – what are a few?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	45. Chapter Forty-Four

**Chapter Forty Four**

Audiat sighs with relief as the other end of the phone picks up, the receiver of her call releasing a sleepy "Mmmm" to alert her of his attention.

"Hugo," Audiat gasps. Without pausing, she rushes forward, eager to get everything out before a nosey angel inevitably knocks on her door for some sort of clarification. "Listen, I don't have much time – tell Ariel to host her meeting sometime within the next two days, to have Satan walking around the halls at the banquet I've been forced to host on Raphael's behalf would be catastrophic. Also, I'm hosting a banquet for Raphael – or he's hosting a banquet, whatever. In three days, I'll be heading your direction with a party of selected angels, and on the fourth day, we'll arrive so long as everything goes without trouble. Prepare the archangel. Make sure he knows all of his – and our – political focuses. I texted you all the details, everything I said and hinted at in the little political meeting I hosted, so please, pass that on to him and explain everything.

"Also, we're going to need Bryon's help." Audiat pauses for half a second. "Tell him to lessen up on the Horse, to allow it to progress slowly and steadily over the USA in a threatening manner. We want this thing to appear at a scheduled time an hour into Raphael's little lunch party, with enough drinks to loosen even his most fierce competitors up a tad but not enough for them to get completely wasted, and have him approach the aerie, rearing and shit. We'll then need Bryon to jump in and – hopefully – finish off the Horse then, at last ending its reign of terror, then have him acting out retreating from Raphael after Wrath of God descends with all his… wrath. He'll march backwards, roaring threateningly at Raphael while backing up, and fade out of sight eventually, as if he'd turned and fled or something. Make sure he gets all of this, unabridged, okay?"

"I'll do my best to pass it along." A massive, exhausted yawn sounds from the other line, causing Audiat to freeze in place. "Anything else, beloved?"

"_Bryon_," Audiat breathes into the phone, her wings trembling nearly as violently as her hands.

"Yes, Audiat." Concern pierces through the raspy cadence of fatigue. "Do you need a bag? You sound stressed. Is something wrong?" Anxiety begins to tip his words rather than simple curiosity. "Is someone there with you? Are you being threatened? How quickly do I need to come?"

Audiat leans into the phone, wishing with all her might that instead of hearing Bryon's voice for the first time in hundreds upon hundreds of years, she could be hearing it through his chest, feeling the vibrations against her cheek as his words wrap around her like melted butter. A single tear travels down her cheek, and she claps a hand over her mouth to silence her sobs.

"Audiat?" Rabid fear banishes all hints of sleepiness from his voice. "Audiat? What's wrong? What's happened? Are you alright? If you don't respond in a few seconds I'm hightailing it over there, Horse or no Horse."

"Oh, God, Bryon." Audiat's voice cracks embarrassingly. "I wish… I wish you could."

"_Audiat_," he sighs with relief, her name long, guttural, drawn out like a solemn prayer. "You scared me. Audie…" He sighs and falls silent, and, in that moment, Audiat gets the sense that he's leaning against the phone as well.

"I wish I hadn't dialed the wrong number," Audiat whispers, another tear rolling down her eye. "Bryon, I wanted… I wanted to be able to see you and call your name and realize you were there without ever having to hear your voice. This isn't… I didn't want it to… I was going to show you that I remember what you look like, Bryon. I do."

"Hush, now," Bryon soothes, sounding weary. "Shh, shh, shh, don't cry, I can't wrap my arms around you, which was what I was going to do. But that's okay. I've missed your voice." Audiat catches the sound of him swallowing. "In a way, I suppose I'm glad we're not meeting face to face. I can't remember the last time I've cried – this is the sort of hold you have on me, dearest."

"Are…" Audiat clutches at the phone with both hands, sinking down onto an uncomfortable armchair for support in her weak knees. "Are you alright? Why aren't you out fighting the Horse? Not that I'm pissed about it, it's just…"

"I understand." Bryon's exhaustion begins to register in his words, as if he's only now remembering how tired he is, too. "I need a pit stop. Refuel. Power nap. The Horse is quiet, and so am I."

"Do you have food?" Audiat insists, recalling his energy crash that would follow moving his massive body around each and every time, not to mention the extreme craving for sweet, sugary calories. "Are you safe? If you don't have food, I'm hightailing it over the country to bring you a Snickers bar."

"Mmmm-hmmm." The sound of his groggy assurance brings Audiat back to better days, days curled up against his side, toying with his silky hair as he dozed beside her. "I've got a couple of Nephilim bringing in wagons full of fish. I'll be fine. You… you should get some rest, too. You sound so stressed. So, so stressed…"

Audiat laughs, reminded of the possibility of her door being thrown open at any given moment with a twinge of sadness in her gut. "Not so stressed anymore, I don't think. I've missed you, Bryon." Audiat wipes away at her tears. "Listen, I'm not going to call you back again."

"Why not?" Bryon questions on the other end of the line, his alarm again breaking his tired daze.

"Because next time I hear your voice, I want it to be in person. Okay?"

"Of course." Perhaps it's just a figment of her imagination, but the warmth in his tone seems to be wrapping around her like a blanket, protecting her from harm. "I love you, Audiat. I will always love you. I have always loved you. I can't wait to get you a wedding ring –"

Audiat smiles into the phone as Bryon excitedly explains the wedding rings, not daring to share that she already is aware of what wedding rings are and their symbolic purposes, perfectly content with listening to his explanations.

"…so as soon as I find the time, I'm going to get you a beautiful stone of your choice, and help Ogden forge it." A spark of hesitance enters Bryon's voice. "Maybe not, actually. That might be a bad idea. But…" He yawns tremendously. "But it's something to think about, yes?"

"Of course, Bryon." Audiat's voice is soft and high – she realizes that this soft, rich tone of voice is one she hasn't used since the day she last saw his face. "But right now, you're exhausted. I can hear it in your voice. You need to get some rest, which you can't do if you're distracted by me." Her voice grows even warmer. "If you're tired, you can't show the other angels how beautiful you are when you show up. Get your sleep, alright?"

"Yes, Audiat," Bryon complies, like an obedient child. "I love you."

Audiat clutches at the phone, swallowing painfully. "I love…" She chokes slightly, clearing her throat. "I love you a million times more, Bryon. I love you more than all the stars in the sky. Do you want me to sing you to sleep? I hear you like that Dreamworks movie, the one about the horses, so I learned a song from it…"

"Did you?" Bryon whispers, laughing softly – it's a soft, reverberating laugh that Audiat savors, closing her eyes to drink it in. "This is why I love you, Audiat. When you and I finally get a moment alone, we're going to watch this Dreamworks movie about the horses, and you shall be educated. But for now…"

Bryon sighs blissfully, and Audiat can envision his swollen, purple eyelids sliding shut over his bloodshot bronze eyes as he curls up in on himself, perhaps settled in a cave somewhere, perhaps lounging on a plush rug of an abandoned house, cradling the phone against him, smiling himself to sleep. Taking a deep breath and leaning back into her uncomfortable armchair, pretending that he is by her side, Audiat begins to sing.

"_I hear the wind call my name_," she sings gently, absorbed in the sound of him breathing, "_a sound that leads me home again! It sparks up a fire, a flame that still burns… To you, I will always return…"_

* * *

"What the hell is she doing here," I whisper, my gaze locked on the white wolf basking in the bright light.

Bay makes a rumble of disgust in the pit of his throat, but refuses to answer, bending over a shelf.

As we'd descending down to the Library, which, as I'd discovered, is not on the ground level but the one above it, I'd imagined rows after rows of dust-covered wooden book shelves, with the particles stirring in the golden light every time you opened a leather-bound tome. In reality, it's much more of a modern theme, with buzzing LED lights hanging from a white-plaster ceiling and sleek silver book cases. Aside from a door labeled in black, bold letters as "ARCHIVES – SELECT PERSONEL ONLY", there isn't a trace of an ancient book.

Admittedly, it isn't completely boring. Ladders lead up to a second floor of books, no stairwells in sight, the only way up the metal rungs or by feather. A few of the whitewash walls have been torn down, and a crew of sullen, muscled she-angels works on placing wood-paneling up instead. Almost as if to up the fantasy mood, trees grow at the intersections of the long aisles of bookshelves, and ivy creeps up the ladders – evidently, someone else had yearned for the dust-covered, ancient library I'd imagined.

In the center of the Library, a harried-looking angel dances around inside of a fortress of books, frantically labelling the spines and placing them in assorted bins. Her wooden desk is carved ornately and well-maintained, its surface glossy enough to see a reflection if one happens to see beneath the mountains of biographies and history textbooks. Behind the angel's desk is most massive tree of them all, a twisting, gnarled oak with vivid falling leaves, its head of branches glorifying haloed by the light beaming in through the balcony.

Seeing as Bay is reluctant to speak about the elephant in the room, or speak at all, I cautiously plod towards the librarian, attempting to judge her personality as accurately Hugo does, yet failing miserably. Best I can see, she has an intense, scrutinizing look about her, much like the condescending glares of the archangels but more arcane. An angelic sword is carelessly tossed onto the desk without a thought, yet in her pocket, I glimpse a notebook and pen, as if such things are more important to her than blades.

The moment I reach speaking distance, the angel looks up at me sharply, her disapproving gaze distinctively owlish in appearance. The silver-rimmed spectacles slide down to her nose as she pauses to turn to me.

"You're wondering about the bitch, aren't you?" the angel questions, her voice quick and toneless. "Well, I'm wondering about the bitch, too. She and her junkies need to find another hideout…"

"What is Jane even doing?" I whisper, craning around the mountains of unsorted books to watch the motionless wolf and a small armada of she-angels furiously scribbling away at notebooks or pecking rapidly at keys, their eyes all dreamy and far-off.

"Recording her information." The angel huffs, pulling a book from the stack and flipping through its pages, pausing at a torn paper, then tossing it into a pile of other stories requiring a loving hand. "She did it last time, too. Practically none of her little puppets survived. That wolf's a genius, and I suppose her work served as a great addition to my studies, but she's also crazy as a loon. Sees no issue in recruiting healthy minds like that and converting them into something craving a parasite in their brains."

"What is she doing with those she-angels?" I raise my eyebrow as one of them slowly keels over, her head falling into the ink she'd been scrawling over parchment and assumedly blurring whatever she'd been drawing. "Why can't they… I don't know?"

"Why can't they think? Here, hold these." The angel hands me a tower of books, causing me to stagger. "Because Jane, with her paws, can't write down her information, not really. She's invading their brains, snuffing out every dollop of themselves they ever had, turning them into machines for her to program and operate. When she releases them, they're just dreamy little dolls, talking wonders about their time with Jane and seducing other angels with less self-control into Jane's clutches. That wolf just works them to the ground over there."

"That…" My stomach tugs violently. "That's not right. There's only so many she-angels, right? What happens if she eats up too many?"

"Well, she's only trimming off the fat at the moment, so Ariel's turned a blind eye." The angel sounds as if she disapproves. "But if we close our gates to her, she'll either start abducting our members or abducting males. Humans don't have the brain capacity to hold even a fraction of her thoughts in their heads." Her eyes quickly skate up and down my figure. "It is a 'their', correct? You do not seem fully human."

"Oh, yeah." Hastily, I nod. "Yeah, I'm… not human. And who… who are you?"

"Metatron, Scribe of God." She takes the tower of books from my arms, balancing it against her chest, and shakes my hand. "Audiat told me to keep an eye out for you. I'm glad I won't have to steer you from that wolf's clutches; you seem to have a decent enough head on your shoulders."

Metatron – wasn't she one of the acceptable angels Audiat had listed? Must be, seeing as she seems to be in the know about me.

"Do you know what she's telling the she-angels to write?" I question, studying the one that'd fallen, wondering to myself if she'll rise again or if she just took an inconvenient nap.

"Oh, mostly just her studies." Metatron waves a dismissive hand. "Biology of the angels she kills, her data on how to trap and kill a soul, approximately how long it takes an angelic skull to disintegrate into dust. She experiments a lot with souls, that one. Tries to trap them, to torture them, to figure out what makes them tick. It's an unhealthy fascination."

"Does she?" calls a familiar icy voice. "Excellent."

I turn on heel to face Lucius, standing at a crossroad of book aisles, smoke billowing off his clothing and my mother clutching his legs the way a castaway might cling to drifting debris. A small child with its hands wrapped tightly around his neck shifts, lifting its head from the safe concave at his collar bone to inspect its surroundings fearfully, and reveals itself to be Paige.

My heart stutters in my chest weakly.

Crying out her name, my legs slam into motion, dashing ragingly to Lucius before the demon can lay a hand on her. A thick boiling of hatred froths in my gut, its passionate ire inspiring a great lust for Pooky Bear.

But before I can reach him, Lucius's body bends like a white twig as he crouches, prying off my mother and setting Paige gingerly to the ground in one smooth motion. Herding Mom towards me with a firm hand, he stands to his full height, watching emotionlessly as they flee from him.

Before I can hack Lucius's head from his body with Emilio's knife, Mom attacks my legs, holding tight and whispering softly to me, warning me not to get any closer. Paige laces her fingers through mine, hiding her face in my leather jacket, refusing to glance in Lucius's direction as he stretches out his wings, a bitter expression screwing up his face.

"What are you doing here?" I snarl, stroking my mom's hair away from her face. "What did you to my family?"

"I saved them, Penryn." Disinterestedly, Lucius plucks a book on display, flipping through his manga comic for sarcastic emphasis. "You might as well show me some gratitude."

"You don't deserve any gratitude, demon." Metatron vaults over her desk, stalking up to my side with narrowed evil-librarian eyes. "What did you save the Young family from?"

"I don't answer to angels afraid of heights," Lucius scoffs, half-shutting his book to narrow his eyes at Metatron belittlingly. "And, after all, this is a public library, open to all races, including demons. So _scat_, dodo."

Though I don't know much about her, I hadn't expected the reaction this inspires from Metatron – self-consciously, she wraps her wings around herself and slinks backwards, her face reddening rapidly. She stutters incomprehensibly for a few seconds, edging back towards her mountain of books, before turning heel and fleeing him just as my family had.

"Actually, no." Lucius glances up from his book, smiling softly – as he does so, one of the she-angel junkies falls to the ground shrieking murderously, going into wild spasms. Without pausing to comment on the person he'd maddened, the Prince of Hell orders, "Fetch Jane for me – it appears she fled. We have much to discuss, her and I. Now, thank you."

"Listen to me," I insist, pissed off at the way he'd disparaged Metatron and shunted her off, only to get rid of my backup.

"I'm not really listening," Lucius admits frankly, pausing on a page in his book with extreme interest.

"My mom and Paige were in a safe place," I continue, regardless of his rude manner. "They had Nephilim guards. Bryon said they were at the top of the line. What could've brought them down, something so flashy that needed you to save them?"

"The big, bad wolf. He –" As if this reminds him of something, Lucius stares out the balcony window, his sharp face honed into one of intense concentration. Still as a marble statue, his wings black slivers upon his back, Lucius is caught in a cerebral world beyond my understanding. Abruptly throwing down the manga book, Lucius stalks over to the closest tree and snaps off a twig from its lowest branch, staring down the smooth, wooden shaft of the oak stick and bracing it between his fingers, as if testing its strength.

Now evident that he's not going to explain anything more, I shift my weight in annoyance. "The big bad wolf?" I repeat.

Lucius crouches in the dirt encompassing the tree, pawing at it with one slender hand. "Your patron." My mouth opens slightly as Lucius begins to draw in the dirt like a toddler, sketching crude runes into the soft earth. "Evidently, he didn't much appreciate Paige's competition with his alpha sibling. Unfortunately, you'll have to discuss it yourself with him – I'm not on his friends list. I only responded to a deal proposal."

My heart tremors and, instinctively, I bundle Paige tighter against me. "You made a deal?"

"Yes." He kneads at the dirt. "With Arabella."

"She was a nice woman," Paige whispers heartbrokenly. "She – she – he killed her!"

"Not me," Lucius elucidates. "Black Wolf. No, she offered to become my wife if I saved the members of the royal family she'd sworn her life to protect. Too devoted to a cause. Pity the beast tore her throat out, women with soft bodies are much more pleasurable to rescue than zombie mutts."

I watch as he leans down and blows over the dirt, his crisp white lips puckering. "What are you –"

I break off with a gasp watching as the veins webbing beneath Lucius's snowy skin begins to glow in a glorious shade of purple. Paige whimpers as the dirt he'd been fondling ripples and quakes, the runes flashing once with light before slowly beginning to revolve and spiral like a galaxy. I cannot tell where my confusion ends and my astonishment begins as I watch as Lucius splays his fingers over the dirt, sucks in a deep breath as if it may be his last, and, arching his spidery fingers, yanks his hand back.

Every laborious inch Lucius draws his fingertips upwards, the glow in his veins begins to subside and the ground seems to bulge like a growing mountain. I shove Paige behind me and place a hand on the back of Mom's head, watching as the bulge swells like a zit in the soil. My heart thuds in my chest as the demon begins to quiver, heaving his breaths, his hand trembling with the strain of whatever it is he's doing.

Voicing my thoughts, Paige gasps in awe as a little muzzle pokes through the earth, a little wet black nose quivering curiously. My mouth falls open as Lucius falls forwards, panting hoarsely, a thin, glittering layer of sweat covering his snowy skin like a crust of diamonds. The creature inside the dirt mound continues to burrow up from the tree roots, a strange yipping noise issued from its long, slender muzzle.

"The hell is that?" I breathe, frightened to look away from the bald, bony canine emerging from the dirt. An ugly dog looking like a mix between a Dalmatian and a husky shakes the dirt from its furless body, grinning at Lucius and pawing at his suit, getting its dirty feet all over the white fabric.

"Hellhound," Bay informs grimly, padding over, as if just now realizing that Lucius has been here, his answer only a fraction of a second before Lucius's chilling, "Your future."

"Hellhound?" I shrill, unable to run away as I so desire to do. The bald, wrinkly dog-thing blinks at me with jade green eyes lacking pupils.

"It's a talent I'm perfecting that involves souls." Lucius cracks his neck as he stands, picking up the baby monster in his arms and cradling it against his chest, smiling slightly as it cranes upwards to lap at his throat. "However, like any task worth learning, it must be studied before it can be perfected. So I require Jane's mind. I don't require you, so skedaddle."

"Hell you don't," Bay thunders, crossing his arms sinisterly. "You will explain what you meant by that."

Lucius turns to stare at Bay, his expression a glorious bitch-face. Hugo's laughter echoes through the rafters. The boy skips down an ivy-cloaked ladder, chuckling all the way, before strutting up beside me.

"How long have you been there?" Bay murmurs, studying his Son of Man curiously.

"Long enough," Hugo answers evasively. "Paige, Mama Young, I agree with Lucius and his glorious bitch-face, you two better run while you can, things around here are just going to get ugly." Hugo shoos them off, and, without a second word, Mom grabs Paige's hand and beelines for the door, though I'm not sure they know where they're going.

"Come to figure out my secrets?" Lucius hums. "I dare you too. The rest are all too thick to notice."

"Please, girls, we know this." Hugo glances wearily around at Bay and I. "That's a hellhound. I've been wondering where they came from for years. Now… I understand. That's _fascinating_, how do you do it?"

"By trapping a soul before it has the chance to escape, and forming another body for it." Lucius almost seems to have the adoration of a new father as he tickles at the stomach of the hellhound. "Look at her – she's nearly perfect, almost a wolf. Still, ugliness clings to her, but not as ugly as past failures."

"Bay, Penryn, when you make a deal to become Lucius's wife, he owns your soul," Hugo explains, glancing and fro between the two of us. "Because he likes to get the most out of his business arrangements, when you die, causing your soul to either go to heaven or hell, he doesn't let it leave this plane. He traps it and he channels it. I want to know how you do that, Lucius."

"I wasn't the first," Lucius hints teasingly. "In fact, I learned from the best."

"Wait…" I shake my head in confusion. "Take it back to square one, please."

"Square one?" Lucius barks, his disgust mixing with something almost like disappointment. "Square one is that Black Wolf tried to murder your sister. He didn't like the way things were standing in his everlasting war against the moon, so he decided to remove nighttime's most recent pawn to add an uneven streak to the chess game."

"And so…" I tilt my head to one side. "So the Nephilim guards tried to help, but they couldn't…"

"Arabella locked your family in a room and called upon me in her last moments, pleading for her last living moment to be successful in the special job she'd been gifted by her hero, the Dragon King." Lucius sighs in boredom. "I do despise it when people romanticize death, it's quite naïve of them. She became my wife and I rescued your family. You witnessed me removing her soul from judgment and putting it into a body of its very own."

"I don't understand," I whisper.

Hugo grunts. "You should have that on a t-shirt."

"We could both get one," Bay comments, cocking an eyebrow.

Lucius seems to be growing more and more uninterested in the situation. "Are you all finished? Need we go over colors and shapes again?"

"Look," I snap, "all I know is that you said that one day, I'm going to turn into that little wrinkly mutt thing, and you haven't given me any explanation. Best I can figure, you stole this woman that sacrificed her life to save my family away from heaven and put her in the body of a hellhound, one of your personal bitches. If you don't explain, I will throw you out a window."

"Big talk, small sword," Lucius notes. "Besides, even if she would've gone, and that's up for debate, my friends, dear little Arabella wouldn't like heaven. Heaven is a lie. That is why it is imperative for me to get my hands on Jane's research before the monster does."

"The monster?" Hugo repeats, sounding stumped for the first time.

"I still don't understand," Bay harrumphs.

"And there's the back of the t-shirt," Hugo sighs.

"You are all so disappointing," Lucius decrees matter-of-factly. "Ah, look at that – at least he's up and breathing." Setting the dog thing on the ground without a second glance towards it, allowing the mutt to dive into the piles of books Metatron had been surfing through, Lucius stalks proudly towards the balcony window, folding his hands behind his back. "My, my, aren't you handsome."

"He's talking to a wolf," I realize, watching as a stunning silvery gray canine studies Lucius with as much understanding of him as the rest of us. "Why is he…? Why is he talking to a wolf?"

"I talk to wolves, too." Hugo shrugs. "It's really not that bizarre, Penryn. But that wolf… look at that. Obviously angelic class, grey fur, dappled grey wings – reminds me a bit of that old codger Pepper, hope he made it out okay – with piercing grey eyes. Those devils are serious business. Wonder what he's doing –" Hugo pauses, tilting his head to one side. "Bay?"

"Yes, Hugo?" Bay thrums, his eyes going wide with adoration.

"What are you thinking?"

Bay blinks several times, as if he's unaccustomed to being asked this. "I'm thinking that we found the body of Bezaliel in a patch of moonlight. I'm thinking that Lucius said he was not the first to do this, meaning he's merely reproducing something, perhaps out of petty fascination. I'm thinking that perhaps your White Wolf does the same thing he does if people die beneath the moonlight. I'm thinking that that's Bezaliel."

My mouth gapes like a fish out of water for a few moments as I gather what he'd just said – Bay, the slow Fallen angel with blunt, stupid words, had drawn two and two and two together before me upon Hugo's command without hesitation. And, upon further thought, it makes sense – the White Wolf's words regarding the little child Alex, the little boy experiment he'd whisked from this world and placed into the Garden of Eden to wander forever.

If he truly does not believe in some being sent through judgment, then confiscating each and every soul would mean that the Garden would grow crowded. Hugo's eyes light up with an inner comprehension as my heart burns with acceptance of the theory.

Unfreezing from his deep, thoughtful pose, Hugo pounds on Bay's chest a few times, grinning up at his Fallen angel with an expression that could melt even the harshest archangel's heart. "That's why I keep you around. I complicate everything. You just nailed it on the head, didn't you?"

"Hugo?" Bay questions, laying a huge hand on the boy's slender shoulder, illuminating the massive difference in size between the two.

"Yeah?" Hugo prompts distractedly, already focused on the Bezaliel wolf again, analyzing the creature clinically.

"What does that mean about Scruffy…?"

Hugo's mouth opens slightly as he turns to Bay, his eyes glazed with amazement.

"And more importantly," Bay adds, glancing towards me with a furrowed brow, "what does that mean about grizzled old Pepper?"

* * *

"Mom…" Paige digs her heels into the ground, trying to worm out of the tight hand strangling her forearm, writhing wildly. "Mom, stop it!"

Perhaps unlike any other sensible parent, Mom does not even falter as she drags Paige down the hall. The maniacal gleam in her mother's eyes glints from the darkness, and the shadows sharpen her facial features. Her teeth flashing like fangs, Mom grins madly, her jagged nails sinking into the soft skin of Paige's underarm.

"Come, child, we seek refuge," she purrs. "Refuge! Refuge from the beast! From the devil! From the monster! From the wolf!"

Paige furrows her brow as she struggles, wondering if she speaks about different creatures or just one. "Mom, maybe we should go back to Penryn –"

"Betrayed!" Mom screeches. "Abandoned! We flee her! Run, Paige! Run!"

"Stop." Paige struggles as her mother breaks into a run. "Please, stop! I want to go back, I want Penryn! Stop, please! Please?!"

"You heard her."

Mom freezes at the thundering voice issued from the shadows, stiffening as if a bolt of lightning had struck. Fearfully, Paige yanks her arm back, trying to escape the inescapable fruitlessly. Peering imploringly at the angel that'd stopped Mom in her tracks, Paige mouths pleads towards Raffe, trying and failing to keep her breathing under control.

From the shadows he emerges, his two eyes shining like stars, the vividness of the blue saturating his pupils brighter than she's ever seen it, so blue it's more like Wishing Blossoms than the ocean. On his shoulder perches his Nephilim pet, staring maliciously at Paige, her blue eye glowing brighter than his and her bronze eye gleaming like a mirror.

"You," Mom snarls. "Stay away from us."

"You stay away from her." The angel squares his shoulders, glaring belligerently at Paige's mother. "You're hurting her."

"_I'm hurting her?_" Mom shrieks. "You are the cause of my daughter's misery!" Wailing, Mom chants something in her tongues, falling to her knees. "You are a plague to this family! Leave me alone! Leave us alone! Begone! Begone!"

"I'm not the madwoman that sold her daughters to a demon." Paige winces at Raffe's retaliation. "Let. Go. Of. Her."

Mom laughs shrilly, casting her head back and bringing Paige even closer to her. "You blame me? Why do you think the demon was so anxious to strike a deal? Why do you think he is so insistent on protecting my daughter? Who brought the harbingers of my girl's doom to her?" Mom's hand tightens around Paige's wrist. "Monster! Stay back!"

Raffe's gaze seems to grow even brighter, his anger intensifying their color. "_Let her go_."

"I will not." Mom bares her teeth at him. "Stay away from me and my family. Leave here and _don't ever come back_."

And, to Paige's immense surprise, the angel seems uncertain. Mom's sudden gamble for authority has them all off guard, creating a tense, fearful aura as they await a victor in the battle of wills, watching her chest puff in and out angrily and his cool, controlled breathing, waiting to see if her scowl quivers or if his uncertainty grow a larger, waiting to see if she is the first to glance away or if it shall be the archangel to crumble first.

It's Raffe that looks away first.

Mom snarls triumphantly, as if handing the lesser his punishment.

Paige still remains frozen, still abiding the prickle of dread up her neck and the hot fear in her stomach, swirled around like a sheet from the dryer.

The Nephilim tilts its head towards the angel, blinking in something akin to astonishment. Behind those mismatched eyes that make the world feel lopsided, Paige sees the gears clicking, the raw intelligence trapped in the body of a child. And, as that raw intelligence hones in on Mom, it's her that looks away first.

A presence slides over Paige's mind, barely noticeable yet still blanketing her thoughts in its suffocating glaze.

_Release your daughter. _

Her moment of glory broken, Mom's mouth drops open as she stares at the Nephilim, who'd opened its wings slightly, sitting on Raffe's shoulder like a gargoyle. "But –"

_Release her. _The dragon's eyes narrow. _Now. _

Mom's hand unclenches from Paige's forearm, instead flying to her mouth. Wailing in anguish and hiding her face, clawing at her eyes, Mom dashes off, fleeing from the Nephilim that'd brought about the destruction of her self control.

Briefly, the Nephilim watches Paige's mother's flight, its eyes frostily satisfied at the sight of her fleeing, but then the creature's slender neck snakes around, bringing those unearthly eyes to clash against Paige, sending a tingle of horror down her spine.

As the Nephilim arches its neck and closes its wings by its side, curling its tail around Raffe's neck without breaking eye contact, Paige wonders if she should run after her mother.

* * *

**POLL: Predictions involving what Penryn will discover in the Library...?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	46. Chapter Forty-Five

**Chapter Forty Five**

As I had predicted, inside the Archives, the aura is much more mysterious, the dust swirling up from every old scroll I unravel. Metatron, humiliated both by Lucius and her reactions to his ridicules, had been more than accommodating as she'd granted me access to her treasured cumulative research. After hearing much of what I wanted to learn, what I was frustrated about knowing very little about, she'd been very generous in her tips of where to search for answers to all of my questions, writing them all down on a paper in her notebook and then handing it to me, then scurrying out of the Archives to attend her city of awaiting books.

Though the door had been shut tightly after she'd left the room, to better preserve the ancient documents I must handle with gloves and low-lighting, after a few moments locked away in the eerie, dust-coated room with swaying yellow lights and eerie, moving shadows dancing over the walls, I'd guiltily cracked it open, allowing a sliver of fresh air to seep into the room and for the distant murmur of conversation to reach me in this quarantined room.

Drawing reassurance from the shaft of white light streaking through the room, I walk lazily through the aisles, grazing my finger over the tops of the filing cabinets collecting dust, strolling down the aisle until I reach one that I hesitate at.

_Wolves and Other Creatures Seemed to Have Sprung From Myth_

Would Lucius's monster fit beneath this category?

Would his hellhounds?

Glancing once inquisitively towards the demons files, I continue onwards, frustrated with my indecisiveness. But in a hall of answers with unlimited time, how does one know what to resolve first? Should I start with the most irksome or the least intriguing, should I get the biggest questions out of the path or should I slowly build up to the most groundbreaking of inquisitions?

Sighing in frustration, I gnash at my teeth and turn on heel, working my way back towards the shadowed corner of the room where I know a pile of documents have already been hand-selected by Metatron, primary sources from assorted points of time in my uncle's life, his notes, his journal entries, his letters – they all apparently have a connection to what I'd been interested in, and, supposedly, she threw in a couple that she had no clue how to translate in hopes that I may discern something she could not.

Sliding down the wall and landing in a comfortable, crumpled heap on the floor with the stack of sources carefully locked away in boxes and bags, I peek inside each of the compartments, searching for something remotely interesting.

Initially, all are boring and plain, containing trite and uninteresting things such as Bryon's sightings of Raffe and his warnings to the nearby towns and Chazas, a love letter or two to Audiat, more than one study on the natural hierarchy of species – basically what he'd told me that night at the Nephilim Temple's hallway in a nutshell – and a mildly interesting field report on a man that'd been found stumbling about in the middle of the desert without a soul.

However, one catches my eye, its contents bringing a fire of curiosity to rage at my heart.

Cautiously, I pull the translation slip from the baggy, thankful that this particular document happens to be one of the few that Metatron has come around to translating into English, and, by the looks of it, Spanish and Italian.

_Such an event must be recorded into my notes, even if I have so very little evidence to prove that what I saw lying in the wreckage were true and not a trick of the smoke and ash clogging up my lungs and rusting the metal skull cap (correct translation, perhaps idiom of the time?). _

_The incinerated village of the little boy Hugo had many secrets to tell, I realized, as soon as I traveled back to the land swept with hellfire to plunder her secrets. Of a few things I am certain; Gabriel is not in control of the fire, nor any angels. In fact, with new, standing evidence I dare not sacrifice to other eyes, I find myself questioning whether or not the Messenger truly thinks for himself anymore, or whether he be a puppet, a dead body suspended by strings and kept dancing by some merciless overlord. _

_Another thing the ashes have revealed is that Black Wolf (literally 'Canine of Dark Days') was here. Whether it was while the fire blazed around him and his feet left prints in the ash long after his disappearance or whether he simply padded through the grey plain he'd created, I have no inkling. This leads me to believe that, although the sun was high above in the sky, the wolf the boy has affectionately titled "Scruffy" (literally 'tufty fur') was placed there by White Wolf (literally 'Canine of Pale Moon') to help make up for the loss of his brother, a man that died with unfinished business at the hands of White Wolf's enemy. _

_The third and final thing that I noticed has chilled me to the bone. Even now, as I write, my hand quivers, for not everything died in the burning wrath of the hellfire. Something_ had escaped_. As I scanned the grey dust, each one of my footprints stirring ash, I awoke another creature curled up in the dust, dormant, as if awaiting the moment to wake up and rise from the soot. _

_Covered in ash, buried completely without so much as a rib out of place, it rose like the dead coming to life again, shedding grey dust as it did so. I hid behind a hill, watching with only my top crescents (idiom?) as it shook out its neck. I know not what it looked like specifically, for the dust consumed its figure and hid its luster. I only know that first, it craned its neck around like a stork, evidently searching for the Black Wolf that'd scorched the land so utterly, before taking to the sky with a trail of grey in its wake. As it rose above, an eclipse shadowed the sky, leading me to believe that perhaps, the Angel of Clockwork is not the one in control of the time travel – or perhaps she is, and that this one is only a pupil. _

_Or perhaps I have seen something completely new, the likes of which we could've only dreamed before? _

_However, my intuition leads me to believe otherwise. A glance in its eyes, sincere reader, and you would've been able to tell, too. _

_I believe I have seen the _?_. _

Frustrated, I stare at the question mark, as if it will go away. What had he seen? Why had Hugo's town been torched? Why does Bryon write so cryptically, as if his time is not rife, but rather, as if his life is hanging on a thread and the wrong move shall bring about his destruction?

Curiously, I slip the translation back into the baggy and pull out the original document, viewing it through a layer of plastic. I frown at the last word, seeing as it makes no more sense than anything else.

The script is in some foreign language with a foreign splay of neatly printed characters written in red ink. Initially, I'd thought that perhaps it's some bizarre transcript in the modern day world, something like Arabian or a lesser known Chinese vocabulary, but both the unfamiliar swirl and loop of what I assume are words and the reminder that this was jotted down after Bryon first met Hugo – literally ages ago – tie a brick to my heart and allow it to sink.

I scrunch my eyes at that last word in frustration.

Perhaps he has more written about the strange word.

Perhaps they're other notes.

If not…

I glance towards the bulge of the phone in my pocket, weighing my options, but quickly feeling a stab of guilt shaft through my gut. Admittedly, the option of calling my uncle seems awfully tempting – but, according to Hugo, the one who'd first informed me of Bryon's moment of downtime, he really, truly needs the rest. Supposedly, the transition of man to beast burdens his need for calorie-consumption by a tenfold, and, while beast, he can scoop entire schools of fish out of the water with his massive maw, he requires the same intake of energy into a little, not-as-earthshaking body.

Then again…

This creature, the one that Black Wolf had attempted to murder by incinerating a village full of people with _hellfire_ and _still_ failed, seems much to like the monster creeping around these halls for my liking. If I don't discover a translated file with his research on the creature somewhere, though I may not like it, I might have to contact Bryon and rip him from his precious slumber.

Delving into the piles once more, it doesn't take me long to discover a wrinkly leather-bound book hiding between two journals, one upon the aurora borealis and the other upon the many colors of the breaking dawn, both of which sound more boring than watching paint dry. Unfortunately, though, other than the gruesome sketch of a large, almost crocodile-like creature on the front page, I can't make out much else in the small, only halfway filled out book.

"If you're looking for Hugo, I'm not him," yawns an exhausted voice on the other end of the phone.

"What?" I wonder, furrowing my brow as I run my thumb over the crackling leather. "You know, never mind. I'm sorry, Bryon, but… I need your help."

"Of course, Penryn." Banishing his sleepiness with a final yawn, Bryon gathers himself, the scuffling noises granting me a vivid picture of Bryon pushing up from whatever makeshift bed he'd been slumbering across and rubbing at his eyes, feet stomping on the ground. "What's wrong?"

"I really am sorry, Bryon," I repeat, my guilt growing only more heavy in my stomach with each of his words. "I thought you'd be awake – I can let you go back to sleep if you need to. I can probably take this to someone else…" Gnawing on my lip, I flip through a few of the crackly pages dubiously.

"Penryn, I'm not getting back to sleep now," Bryon chuckles warmly, "and I'm glad you came to me. Besides, if you let me go now, I'd drive myself crazy wondering what was wrong. Does it have anything to do with the infamous monster creeping around those halls?"

I tilt my head to one side. "Maybe…? I don't know, that's why I need you."

"Well, don't keep me in suspense." His laughter is almost abnormally merry, considering the graveness of what I have in my hands and the danger he'd been facing mere hours ago – but perhaps that's his secret to greatness, laughing and smiling at the approaching danger.

"I've been going through the archives here at the aerie," I explain. "You know, trying to fill in all the gaps in my supernatural education. I found something – something of yours – and I think that it might be what's lurking around here. I can't read the text and Metatron doesn't have a translation. I thought that, since you wrote it, you'd be able to help me out."

"I'll do my best." Bryon sounds bemused. "What is this primary source that raptures you so?"

"Again, can't read it, but it's got this, like, tribal sketch on the front cover." I turn it over in my hands, searching for clues. "Looks like a journal of some sort? Once upon a time, it was probably bound in green leather, too. Now it's faded."

"Does the sketch look like a lizard-horse with wings?" Bryon inquires, sounding like he already knows the answer.

"Um." I stare at the sketch. "I'd say more crocodile-goat."

"Hmm." Bryon sounds displeased. "For your sake, I sincerely hope that's not what's crawling around your halls – give me a second to translate, and then I'll tell you what I know about the creature inscribed instead of reading out every little word."

"Okay." I adjust the phone against my face. "Take all the time in the world."

"I believe it's pronounced in the English language like Tee-ah-b'la. Spelled maybe T-Y-A-B-_apostrophe_-L-A. _Tyab'la_."

"Tee-ah-bah-la," I repeat.

"Tee-ah-b'la," Bryon corrects. "It's just a fraction of a fraction of a second of pause. There is no 'bah' sound in there. This creature most certainly isn't a sheep of any kind."

"What is the Tee-ah-bla, anyway?" I wonder.

"Close," Bryon approves. "The Tyab'la is a menacing monster I've had the displeasure of running into multiple times in my lifetime, and each time it's been less pleasant than the last. Tyab'la literally means 'Gorgeous terror' when translated to English – I can't really say if it's beautiful or not, I haven't had the displeasure of seeing its full form, but it most certainly is terrible."

"This Tyab'la –" I run my finger over the etch, tracing the fangs jutting menacingly from the roof of its mouth. "Is it what you saw in the ashes of Hugo's village?"

Bryon pauses. "To this day," he admits, words lethargic, hesitant, "I'm not quite sure what it was, stirring in the coals. I sincerely hope it was the Tyab'la, because, otherwise, there's another flying, havoc-wreaking monster on the loose. I also sincerely hope that you're very much in the wrong about the creature creeping around those halls – even so, never, ever travel alone, it attacks those flying solo, those without witnesses."

"Yeah, about that…" I open the book and flip absently through the pages, rubbing my thumb along the frayed edges of the papers. "When Lucius inspected the corpse of Bezaliel, he said that… that Bezaliel's soul had gone missing. That it'd been eaten. Is that something the Tyab'la would do? Something it does? And… there is only one Tyab'la, right? Not an entire herd, like the cherubs?"

"Only one Tyab'la, just like there is only one God." Bryon seems to be growing jaded, as if the conversation is pouring salt into wounds long healed. "I did not want this to be the Tyab'la, but I have no reason to doubt Lucius's diagnosis and every reason to fear that your suspicions might be true. Yes, the Tyab'la does leech off of souls. A soul is one of the most nutritious things to eat in this universe, however, very few digestive tracks can handle that much energy, thus leading to the practice of eating meat back in the days of evolution, as the meat still holds reminisces of the soul clinging to it. The Tyab'la is the only creature in my knowledge that feeds off of undiluted soul mojo. It makes sense that it would dwell in a place so densely populated with creatures like the she-aerie." He swears lightly under his breath, his words foreign and unfamiliar.

"Is there any way to kill it?" My hands clench around the phone. "Or get rid of it? Something?"

"With luck, I'll be able to drive it off." Bryon grunts, as if shoving himself upright or swinging his feet over the edge of a bed. "There is no killing the Tyab'la – any attempts to will only make it deadlier, and the last thing we need is a pissed off Tyab'la. Until I get there, keep everything under tight watch. Make sure that word doesn't slip out about the Tyab'la – few know of it, but those that do will spread panic and mistrust. Never, ever be alone at any time – have that grouchy archangel be useful and sleep on Audiat's couch. Don't be afraid of the shadows – it doesn't need those to kill you. The shadows are, in fact, your best option of evading it."

"Alright." My heart begins to thump. "Okay. Got it. So you're headed this way? What about the Horse?"

"It'll follow me." Bryon groans. "I'll have to keep it at bay while juggling this whole issue. But don't you worry, I'll take care of it, it'll just be twice as exhausting. Keep out of Lucius's way, the demon's a bloodhound when it comes to little hunts like this, he's fascinated by them and will do anything to receive answers. Stay safe, you."

"Oh, Bryon?" I shuffle through the piles Metatron had granted me and select one last thing from the mess, unzipping the pouch and carefully handling the book in even worse shape. "There's another journal, almost exactly alike the Tyab'la one. The title looks kinda the same, but it's orangey, and there's a picture of golden flame on the front. What's it about."

Bryon's voice is hard. "Put that book back where it came from, Penryn."

Curiously, I flip open to the first page, and the first thing I'm greeted by is a beautiful drawing of White and Black Wolf circling, and an eerie silhouette of something that doesn't look human in the middle. The strange word for Tyab'la looms beneath it, and overhead the word on the cover.

"Bryon, it has the wolf yin-yang, and the Tyab'la –"

"_Put. It. Away_."

I frown deeply, troubled by the bitter ice slicing in each of his words. What could be troubling him? Why is he acting in such a stoic manner?

"But, Bryon –"

"_I TOLD YOU TO PUT IT AWAY!_" Bryon roars through the phone.

In shock, I yank the phone back away from my ear, fingers slipping from the glossy case and allowing it to fly across the room, slamming into a file cabinet with a resounding bong.

I stare at the phone, cupping a hand against my ear to nurture the hearing difficulties I'd almost certainly just inherited from Bryon's outburst. My heart stampedes brashly in my chest, its erratic rhythm throbbing in my ears like a deep, threatening drumbeat. As I stare without comprehension at the phone lying on the ground, mustering courage to face whatever emotion had forced collected, gregarious Bryon to such points of malice, I notice something that accelerates my stuttering heart back to its rapid beating.

The door I'd had opened ever so slightly, the one with only a crack to allow the conversations of those dwelling outside the walls for comfort, now splays ajar, swung back all the way on its hinges, and no murmurs sound from the Library.

I'm alone.

And something had pushed that door open.

Frantically, I scrabble towards the phone, picking it up with a terrified gasp.

"_I think it's in here with me, Bryon_," I hiss into the phone, cutting off anything he might've been saying.

"Stay calm." My uncle's voice sharpens in a matter of seconds into a precise, calm, fatherly sort of tone. "Take deep, even breaths. What do you see? What's going on? Put yourself in a corner, they're easy to defend until someone comes along."

"Already done," I whisper, eyes darting about fearfully. "Um, the closed door is now not closed. Other than that, there's not much – but I can feel it – there's something in this room, Bryon. Something other than me. What should I do? Is it the Tyab'la?"

"I don't know." Bryon's voice is grim. "Did you notice the door being open before you unzipped the pouch of the second book?"

My heart skips a beat. "I don't think so. Is that why…?"

"Burn that book, Penryn." Bryon's voice is icy cold. "Listen to me. Scoop that book up into your arms, don't read a word of it, not a single word. You grab that book and then you run. You don't stop running until you're in a heavily populated area of the aerie. And then you find Hugo and you _burn that book_. Do you understand me, Penryn?"

"I –" Snatching the book from its placement atop the packet it'd been zipped carefully up in. "Yes. Yes. I must burn the book."

"I'm heading your way." Bryon's voice adapts a touch of softness. "Good luck."

Hanging up without uttering anything finalizing like a farewell, I tuck the cursed book beneath an arm and stand up warily, glancing all around, awaiting a crocodile donkey to confront me from one angle. However, that most definitely isn't what I see.

Belle sits upon a filing cabinet, her head cocked to one side and her eyes narrowed critiquingly. In front of her scuffles a familiar white build, bent over a filing cabinet where he had been invisible to my eye. Initially, I believe that Lucius is as blind to my presence as I had been to his, but after a moment, he stands as well, swiveling to face me with a cocked eyebrow.

"Do you need me to dispose of the book, or are you going to hop to it?" Beneath a pair of sleek sunglasses, I can feel his glare growing more and more judgmental. "Between you and I, any piece of knowledge that can terrify the Dragon King is knowledge the world can't quite handle."

"Did you overhear everything?" I wonder, blushing, thinking about how stupid I must've sounded.

"No, not quite." Lucius bends back over the files, the yellow light filtering through his pale hair like golden fingers. "I heard your uncle having a scare attack and did what I do best. This little monster had the same idea, it seems. I do believe he'd have you destroy that book now; just because I chased the beastie off doesn't mean it won't return." His glasses gleam steely black. "If you want, I'll get rid of it here and now."

I narrow my eyes. "How do I know you'll not just take it from me?"

"The Tyab'la is some nasty business to get wrapped up in." Lucius sounds dead serious. "I will get dirty and roll around in the muck to get answers, but I'm not willing to sacrifice myself for a fun fact. If the Dragon King's scared out of his wits of something in his own research, I don't want anything to do with it." Accosting quickly, he holds out a hand towards me, clearly indicating that he'll take the book from my hands. "Shall we?"

Still distrustful, I glare him down evilly. "I don't trust you; I think you'd say anything to get to the bottom of a case."

"Good for you." Lucius sticks his hands back into his pockets. "You don't have to give it to me. You have my good wishes, Young. Do remember my offer as you are attacked alone in the hallways carrying Tyab'la bait. Good day."

"Fine." Sighing exasperatedly, I shove the book towards him. "Burn it, then."

"Oh, no, I shouldn't." Lucius turns his nose up to the book quite literally. "After all, I might steal the cursed artifact and exploit its legendary power. I couldn't possibly do what Bryon asked you to; no way in hell. Did I mention I'm the Prince of Hell? And that I can summon things like fire? But never mind that, I might steal it!"

"I get it." I slam the book against him, shivering at the lack of body heat my fingers are met with. "Burn it. Make sure that the Tyab'la doesn't get it."

Frigid hands wrapping around mine, his long, spidery fingers gingerly take the tome from my hands, prying off my reluctant grip to hold it in front of his face for a few tense seconds, his expression grim as he studies the title.

"Lucius?" I whisper, growing nervous with his extended silence.

Balancing the book's weight in one hand, Lucius snaps his fingers. The reflection of the flames dance in Lucius's sunglasses until there's nothing more than a pile of ashes on the floor for him to stare at.

* * *

"Lucifer." Ariel's lip perks slightly – she can't completely deny its pleas to curl in disgust. "How… _pleasant_ for you to arrive early for our meeting."

"Ariel." The demon snorts, his once angelic face flaring with hatred. "There is nothing pleasant about it. No need to lie about such things."

"There's something wrong when the woman is more chivalrous than the man." She lifts her head, eyes lingering to the small party of the demons in his wake. "Where is your second son? I do not see him."

Lucifer's fists ball up tighter. "Who knows where that bastard is. For his sake, he'd better stay gone."

* * *

At least the archangel's hand is warm, Paige decides, glancing as subtly as she can towards the towering Raffe as he leads her gently through the Library.

His eyes intelligently search the nooks and crannies of the Library, all the places Paige'd expect Penryn to be reclined in and reading a good book. Maybe this place has more in the Percy Jackson series – her heart leaps with joy at the thought of it. Maybe Penryn will even help her find the book, and they'll curl up together, reading side by side, and let time pass.

However, as Paige catches sight of a familiar pale figure ghosting through the aisles, she whimpers slightly and cowers behind the angel, all dreams of Penryn forgotten.

The demon seems rather brisk in his manner, and doesn't truly seem to take notice of Paige or Raffe, despite the archangel's primal growling rumble. Beneath his arm is tucked an ancient looking book with bedraggled pages and a tattered cover – though not particularly eye-catching, there's something about the book that fascinates Paige, causing her to be unable to look away from it and the flames etched onto the peeling leather.

Evidently, one of the assistant librarians feels at least similarly as she stalks angrily up to the demon, her mouth drawn out into a straight line of poorly quelled irritation.

"That book is from the Archives," she snaps, jabbing a finger towards the thing he holds underneath his arm. "You have no right to be taking it."

The demon seems exasperated. "It's a library. The whole purpose of a library is to borrow books."

"And many of these books we lend!" the assistant librarian snarls, scowling darkly at the demon. "In fact, you can take any one of these books back to your apartment so long as they don't come from the Archives section! Especially not that one! Give that back _now_, or I shall take it by force!"

"Oh, why do I even bother?" the demon sighs, slipping his sunglasses down his nose and glaring at the librarian.

With an earsplitting shriek, the angel falls down to the floor, clawing at her eyes and slapping at the ground with her wings much like a fish may squirm over the land, kicking out incoherently. Even though Paige remains petrified by the she-angel's spasms, her eyes filling with tears as she begins to froth at the mouth, the demon takes no notice in his handiwork, stepping neatly over the flailing angel and continuing towards Raffe and her.

"Raffe," Paige whispers, hiding behind him as the demon draws closer.

The archangel squeezes her hand in reassurance as the demon continues towards them.

Stepping into his path, Raffe challenges the monster, his lips turned up into a fearsome snarl. "What the hell was that for?" the archangel rumbles, his feathers bristling in fury.

The demon attempts to sidestep. Raffe intercepts again. Once more, the demon attempts to avoid conflict, and, once again, Raffe negates his efforts.

The demon's chilling sobriety sends a shiver down Paige's spine – perhaps the archangel can't see the rage festering beneath the cold skin of the demon, perhaps its concealments of its blind fury slip a veil over his eyes, but Paige can see past the sunglasses and see the heat rising, much more powerful than anything Raffe could ever muster, so powerful it's moving.

"Get out of the way," the demon orders placidly.

Raffe's hand moves to the hilt of his sword. "Where is Penryn?"

"Fleeing the monsters under her bed." One of the demon's snowy eyebrows cocks. "Much like you. I have an appointment that I must attend. Move or I shall make you move."

"I'm not moving," Raffe growls, stepping so close to Lucius that they are only separated by an arm's length. Their breaths mingle in the air.

"Oh?" His words are cold and maintain an almost delicate tone to them, causing Paige to imagine a frozen spiderweb. "May I have the delicacy to ask why not?"

"Because you haven't given me my answers." Raffe's back muscles tense, as if preparing for a fight. "Tell me what I need to hear and I'll let you pass."

The demon chuckles, his laughter devoid of emotion. "You're cute, Raphael. Now, get out of my way."

"I'm not going to."

The demon's chuckle this time is real – as if he's amused in Raffe's actions, as if he's caught the scent of stupidity, as if he's discovered a string he can pull to make the entire sweater unravel. It's him who steps nearer, making it so that their faces are almost awkwardly close together.

"Allow me to enlighten you on how these things stand." The demon's lips perk in a slow, cruel smile, a grin just barely lifting the corners of his mouth, yet more terribly beatific than anything else in the world. "I need only slide these sunglasses down my nose and you'll be writhing over the ground. Should you make an attempt for that sword or should you continue to block my path, I will not hesitate to do so. With that considered, get out of my way."

"If you're so all powerful…" Raffe cocks his head to one side, still confident for reasons beyond Paige's comprehension. "Why haven't you done it already?"

"Because a grieving Wrath of God, though terrible, is better than an insane, grieving Wrath of God." Lucius tilts back his head, a black tongue swiping his lips and turning them grey. "Trust me. I know."

"Grieving?" A confused note enters Raffe's voice. "I'm not grieving anything."

Lucius's face goes clean of emotion besides from that coy smile playing at his lips. "Not grieving, you say? Well, if you don't get out of my way…" The demon leans forward, his lips baring into a snarl, his words short, gruff, and furious. "_You. Will. Start_."

* * *

**The next chapter will be fun. Much, much fun. **

**Oh, and, remember when I said Bryon knew something he wasn't telling Penryn? **

**Fun. **

**POLL: Lucius is tricky, sly, and rotten. Just as Bryon had said, his quest for knowledge can, will, and has taken him anywhere. But if Bryon was terrified to have Penryn even so much as know what this mysterious book was about, might've Lucius bitten off more than he can chew with this? And what out of Bryon's own research could frighten the dragon so?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	47. Chapter Forty-Six

**Chapter Forty Six**

It's not Raffe – who's slept the night on the bloodstained couch – that pulls Paige and I from our slumber, but rather, a more haggard figure with purple smudges beneath his metallic eyes.

I would be a liar if I say that, as I first begrudgingly peel my eyelids apart to glimpse the tall man poking at me, I thought it was anyone other than Bryon – I hadn't slept well last night, as Hugo had predicted another murder to happen in the later hours of the darkness, my only comfort being that Bryon was on his way. Though it isn't Bryon there before me, I can't complain – Sariel is probably just as able to fend off any Tyab'la as his son.

"Morning!" he grunts, his tone one of surprised cheer despite his depressed expression. "Rise and shine, sleeping beauties! You need a ride down to the cafeteria, don't you? The bastard has already trickled off."

Shifting my sleep-stilled muscles, I groan in annoyance. "Did he? That's just great. You know where he went?"

Sariel shrugs. "Somewhere would be my best guess. Probably somewhere within the aerie, if you dare to get that specific. He left his sword with you, though." My grandfather nods towards the bed post. "One good move, at least. He still doesn't have my approval."

"It must've taken a lot from him, though." Smiling, I reach around Paige and grab Pooky Bear's hilt, drawing her partly from her scabbard. A tingle of rage passes through me, welcomed after so long an absence. "I wonder where he went. Oh, well, I'll figure it out later."

Sariel watches my monster yawn, his lips twitching into a smirk, as if I remind him of someone. "We should get going. The number of seats was already pretty miscalculated for the she-angels in the cafeteria; now, with Watchers, everything's been thrown into a game of musical chairs."

"Okay." I poke Paige's shoulder. "Time to wake up, baby. We can't leave you here by yourself."

She grunts sleepily. "What happened last night, grandpa?" she wonders tiredly. "Did our demon act out? Hugo said he would…"

"Lucius?" Sariel releases a short bark of laughter. "That one? Of course he threw fits, like a hormonal teenager. He'll really do anything to embarrass his father. Last night's bouts were a bit more moody than usual, however, like he had somewhere else to be."

"Oh, yeah?" I squirm down the ladder. "What did that bastard do?"

"Well, for dessert, they were all passing around dishes and making ice cream sundaes." Sariel smiles warmly. "This may be shocking to you, but that was Audiat's suggestion for dessert. So, as they were passing around the M&amp;M's, Lucius evidently turned half the bowl's contents into Skittles, but only half."

"He did not," I whisper in delighted awe.

"He did," Sariel chuckles, shaking his head. "And so he passed the bowl onto his father, the infamous chocoholic. Satan took a big handful and crammed it down his gullet. As you can imagine, he was pissed off."

I laugh freely, unafraid of the shadows with the big teddy bear of a grandfather before me. "This is going to sound weird, but that's one of the most evil things Lucius has done, at least that I've heard of – how did his dad react?"

"Stood up, yelling boisterously, bowl of assorted candies in his two hands," Sariel recalls, chuckling, as he picks Paige off the top bunk and gently sets her on his shoulders. "He took the bowl and poured it all over Lucius. Except when each of the little things hit his white skin and suit, it left a splash of color behind, like a paintball had exploded. Initially, Lucius looked pretty ticked, but he controlled himself and stood calmly, arms outstretched."

"Like Jesus?" Paige adds, spreading her arms like a bird's wings.

"Exactly like that," approves Sariel, smiling up at her. "So, standing there, looking out at everybody with this serene expression, he just whispers, 'I _am_ the rainbow' all melodramatically and vanishes in a puff of golden powder. He later rose from the chocolate fountain still with his entire Jesus façade, splattering chocolate all over his father. I hate him, but he is quite entertaining when embarrassing his father comes into play, and that, even I can't debate. Hey, you, don't giggle yourself to death."

Grinning, Sariel reaches up to tickle my sister, causing her to laugh harder.

"What did I tell you?" he cries as Paige doubles over.

"You _made_ me laugh!" Paige accuses through cackles.

"Now, when did I do that?" Sariel wonders, tickling her again furtively and causing her to collapse with giggles. "Stop that, this instant! No more smiling! You'd better not laugh! Are you laughing? Are you laughing at _me_?"

I grin at the silly pair, wondering how the most colossal and the most fragile in this family can get along in such harmony. Not only does Sariel treat Paige no different than he had when she'd been stitched up and bloody, as if nothing had changed, but I can see the signs of his mourning slipping away, as if Sariel's letting go of the death of his comrade, albeit slowly.

They continue with their antics for a while more as I get dressed in the bathroom, and Paige evidently discovers that, being perched on his shoulders, she's got easy access to his sensitive neck, an access she exploits in her quest. Sariel looks crestfallen as I break the news to him that Paige also needs to get dressed, and waits patiently until she emerges in a too-large T-shirt and a pair of cutoff jeans.

"I look like a zombie," Paige remarks glumly, staring at herself swamped in too-large clothing.

I have to admit, I hadn't anticipated her being too small for Audiat's little clothing.

"Maybe we can pick something up downstairs," I encourage, cuffing her on the shoulder. "Besides, it doesn't look that bad. When do you ever see me wearing anything aside from a big hoodie and jeans? Look, I'm even wearing it right now."

And indeed I am – it feels right, being back inside my customary attire. I'd borrowed the boot cut jeans from the surprisingly friendly Maion and haggled an oversized hoodie off of Hugo, the price being a toothbrush stolen from Audiat's grand bathroom. Because of their wings, angels apparently have bizarre bras, so since I can't use any of Audiat's extras or anyone else's, at least the hoodie hides anything that should remain between me and myself.

Luckily, Paige doesn't dwell long on her unfortunate outfit long once she's perched on Sariel's shoulders again. Their tickle war is a bit frightening as Sariel descends through the center of the triangle, swirling past hundreds of other angels eager for breakfast, but it's still adorable to see.

Another thing I notice as Sariel drops down on the balcony leading to the cafeteria is how popular he is amongst the she-angels – apparently, risking everything in the name of love wins you a place in the heart of all the female angels, and with Sariel's loveable personality, it's difficult to see why they wouldn't treat him as if he belonged in their inner workings of society. Not that I'm expecting a free lunch because of that popularity, but it should be easier to blend in with the crowd with him as a grandfather looking over my shoulder.

_Make friends_. Isn't that what Audiat had said? I glance around nervously at the tightly knit cliques of she-angels descending around me in trios, daunted by their united strength.

_I hate people._ Isn't that what Hugo had said?

I spot the teenage boy as we sidle into a relatively normal-looking, high-ceilinged workplace cafeteria. He skulks in the corner, looking as if he'd received even less sleep than I. Initially, I wonder what he could possibly be doing, isolated from any of the social workings he reluctantly craves, but then Bay approaches with platters piled high with pancakes and I understand.

Following behind Bay is Scruffy. A surge of warmth and guilt floods my heart at the sight of him hobbling enthusiastically towards his master, restricted by the ivory binds of bandages and a splint. I grin halfheartedly at the wolf, watching as he laps behind Bay's ear and smiles at every she-angel to pass.

Walking past Sariel and Paige, unfaltering as the shadows of angels flit over my head like passing gulls, I stride through the lunchroom towards them. Scruffy raises his head almost the moment my foot first hits the floor, turning towards me with two bright, curious eyes, his black nose twitching like a mouse's. Ears swiveled towards me, he breaks out in a massive grin, and yips in excitement. His bandaged tail whips dangerously back and forth as he wheels towards me, whacking Bay on the back in the process.

The clunk of his wooden splint taps across the floor in a clunky beat with the excited pattering of his paws. That bandaged tail is like a club to anyone it comes across.

With an _oof_, I'm knocked to the floor with two great paws planted on my shoulders, and a massive, slavering tongue cutting off my means for oxygen. My body shakes with laughter, only causing Scruffy to be more exuberant in his greeting, his body trembling with delight above me as I only laugh louder and louder. Any attempts to bat him aside are only met with a more ferocious tongue.

"Ivan!" I hear Hugo shouting in the background with exasperation. "Ivan, stop that! No! Bad Ivan! Goddammit, you silly mutt, you're going to tear your stitches out! Ivan, no! _No!_"

"Scruffy, sit?" Bay asks politely.

Gasping for breath, I revel as Scruffy's tongue at last leaves me be, only to _oof_ again as Scruffy sits on my legs. I tentatively open my eyes just in time for a big drop of dog drool to hit my cheek. Sitting on my knees and crouched over me eagerly, Scruffy's slavering muzzle hangs just a foot away, his eyes wide and searching for a release from his rigid position.

"He doesn't know the name Ivan," I hear Bay murmuring to Hugo. "Not anymore. His name is Scruffy now. Scruffy Mutt. If he knows you're talking to him, he'll obey without a second thought."

"Can you get him off?" I wheeze, still shaking with laughter.

"Oi, Scruff!"

Raw adoration sweeps past Scruffy's puppyish glee like a torrent of water through a puddle as the wolf lifts his head to face his master. The heavy bandaged tail thumps several times against my calves, undoubtedly creating bruises.

Hugo drops to a crouch. "C'mhere, boy. Stop being an ass to Penryn."

Relieved of his weight as Scruffy hurls himself at his master, pinning Hugo to the floor, I gasp for breath, still smiling, unsure if the driblets running down my face are tears of laughter or slobber. Bay helps me to my feet, extraordinarily balancing one of the plates of pancakes on his head as he does so.

"Sorry about that," Bay murmurs, smiling towards the boy and the dog writhing together on the ground. "Scruffy apparently received little love from the human camp he was being held in. The vet that was taking care of him said he was beginning to get depressed. But he's fine now that he's back by Hugo's side, and all the she-angels adore the puppy even more now that he's an adult."

"Poor guy." I rub the sleeve of my sweatshirt over my face. "When did he come in?"

"Same time that Obadiah man came into the infringing human camps." Bay shrugs. "They decided that they couldn't have demonic mongrels in the camp – God forbid the dog rat them out. So they shipped him here sometime after the banquet."

"Poor guy," I sympathize again, and, though I can't quite blame Obi for shipping a strange, semi-intelligent giant wolf out, watching Scruffy bounce with excitement as Hugo squirms from out of his reach and dashes away certainly throws a wrench into my good opinion of him. The wolf is hot on Hugo's heels despite his crippling injuries, yipping in cadence with Hugo's exhilarated laughter. "They're so cute together."

"That they are." Bay offers me a pancake. "Hugo is having difficulty coming to terms with the fact that we believe Scruffy is a reincarnation of his beloved brother. However, as you might have overheard, Scruffy doesn't know the name Ivan, which is his brother's title. Scruffy is Scruffy, regardless of the soul inside of him."

"Yeah, well." I shrug, spearing the pancake and shoveling it into my mouth. "Still coming to terms with it myself, but, honestly, I'm more surprised by Lucius. I heard a bit about what happened with that bastard last night from Sariel – you have any new spin other than the skittles and M&amp;M's story?"

"Just that one?" Bay snorts and shakes his head from side to side, lifting his plate to allow a beautiful angel I identify Maion to swoop down and nick one as she passes. "Your grandfather left out a lot. The Prince of Hell is the only thing that makes those mildly interesting. Lucius was always doing something or another. He arrived late at the party in the belly of the roasted, apple-mouthed pig that was presented on his father's half of the table." His nose wrinkles. "I can still smell the stench of ham clinging to him."

"What do you mean?" I question, staring up at Bay worrisomely. "Do you mean he didn't exit the premises?"

"Boo," calls a lazy, ice-cold, slithering voice from across the room. Spinning around, I catch sight of Lucius raising a glass of some pale liquid towards me, his sunglasses gleaming dangerously in the flickering light shining down from above.

"Is he drinking vodka?" I wonder, glancing inquisitively towards Bay, absolutely mystified. Upon the circular table that Lucius shares with an intimidating dark shape I can only interpret to be Satan sits a glass bottle, its crisp label betraying it to be more than tipsy wine.

"Appears so." Bay's eyebrows shoot up. "Vodka and toast for breakfast. I wonder…" He trails off with a thoughtful expression consuming his face.

"So, is that the Devil?" Anxiously, I glance around the room, searching for another pair of demon wings in the sea of feathers. "The one with his back turned to Lucius? Eating on his lap?"

"Ariel granted them only one table," Bay recalls with a shrug. "I guess that, after last night, they can't stand eating in the same room, so it's just insult to injury. Can't say I blame his father – children just aren't supposed to act that way around their parents."

Lucius sticks his black tentacle of a tongue out at Bay, scowling petulantly.

"It's rude to eavesdrop!" I shout, my glare much more scalding than my actual thoughts, which range from annoyed to amused.

"It's rude to talk about people behind their backs," he calls serenely, taking another bite out of his toast.

"Touché," the Fallen angel chuckles, shaking his head in amusement, but a certain nervous touchiness in his aura reminds me that I am indeed talking to the boss of his boss down in Hell. "He wins this round. Well, it seems like Hugo disappeared." Frowning, Bay cranes his head around – following his lead, I notice that, indeed, both boy and wolf have disappeared, perhaps having blundered into the kitchens or elsewhere. "Hmm. He's a strange monkey. However, the number of seats dwindling, and Sariel can't hold yours forever. Do you see him? Search for all the loud, partying he-angels – I do believe the cause for their rowdiness is that they're celebrating Bezaliel's life."

"That's good," I sigh, smiling at Paige as, from Sariel shoulders, she clinks her class of orange juice against their wine glasses or coffee mugs. "I mean, it beats mourning forever, right? And the she-angels don't look too ticked."

"Oh, they're not ticked at all." Bay grins, offering me Hugo's plate of pancakes, an offer I accept gleefully. "Everyone knows that, as a whole, the Watchers are utterly harmless, even when drunk. The Wives took off last night, admittedly, so there's not that barrier of protection, but each and every one of the current hubbies are all very faithful. I do believe the she-angels can pick up that. Do you want coffee, or should we go sit down?"

Ignoring the way my mouth waters, I shake my head. "Negative. I've got a pot boiling up in Audiat's room. When I move in with Raffe, I'll have to steal that."

Bay smiles. "Might not go over too well with Audiat. There could be a massive battle over that coffee machine. She did fly into an area heavily populated with gangs known for taking down the occasional angel to get it. Good luck getting it from her." Bay offers me the crook of his arm.

I take it and laugh as he leads me to the table. "So, she's a coffee drinker, eh?"

"Oh, yes." Bay's smile only grows. "She's very feisty about her coffee. Hugo said that her first actual relationship fight with Bryon was about which was better, coffee or caffeinated tea – I'm not exactly certain how that could've elevated to become a spat, but they're both two odd, odd creatures with bizarre routines and expectances. Makes sense that they'd fight over something insignificant."

"I've never been much of a tea-drinker," I admit as I slip around to the other side of the table, across from Bay and next to Sariel. "Paige loves all sorts of tea, but I don't care much for it."

Bay's eyes widen as he sits, readjusting the wings on his back as he does so. "Don't let your uncle hear you say something like that. It might actually break his heart to hear that a member of his own family doesn't really like tea."

"BAELAN!" Sariel roars in recognition, his greeting igniting another roar from the rest of his warriors. Penemue, Daisy's husband and one of the few ones with coffee mugs, swivels in his chair to pound Bay welcomingly on the back. Very much in his element, Bay roars Sariel's name back, and flings a pancake towards my grandfather.

Laughing quietly and ducking as breakfast food goes flying in barrage after barrage, I silently observe the vivacious food fight that quickly tails Bay's rather banal gesture. Affable testosterone is nearly palpable in the air as the men continue their behavior, causing me to scarf down my own pancakes before they, too, end up among the ammunition. Paige follows my example, earning herself an approving nod from me.

To add to things, the sound of feet stomping on wood echoes around the cafeteria. I turn about in time to see Lucius, standing atop his table, cry, "YOU'RE NOT MY REAL DAD!" and kick a platter of pancakes into the Devil's terrifyingly angular face. The syrup causes a great number to remains stuck to him even as the platter rattles against the tiles, slightly marring the illusion of terror.

As Lucius flees, cackling madly with his father in hot pursuit, Hugo rockets into the cafeteria, slamming into Satan as he does so. Without even bothering to check who'd he'd sent sprawling, Hugo scrambles back to his feet and cowers behind Bay. In a pinwheel of legs, Scruffy follows, hopping over the Devil as he does so.

By this time, the she-angels are all laughing, enthralled by the multitude of events occurring in quick succession. Amongst them, Metatron rolls her eyes and returns to a novel, but the rest remain raptured. Satan rises with literal plumes of smoke billowing from his ears, and, as he bears his white-skinned face to the light fluttering around angels' wings through the balcony, I can't help but feel a twinge of fear – not for Lucius, but for anyone that puts themselves between the Devil and his prize.

As Satan unfurls an ethereal pair of inky wings that look almost fluid, like third dimensional shadows, Raffe sets down on the balcony alongside a face I recognize with a puff of relief – after not hearing anything about Ogden beyond his visit at the lodge that became the scratching post for the abruptly truculent and maybe slightly bipolar Black Wolf, thoughts of him being caught in the same massacre haunted the edges of my imagination. However, as his silvery black metal wings furl up along his arms and he greets the fuming Devil with a smile and a tip of his head, I realize that this is not the case.

First standing as still and perfect as a Greek statue, Raffe searches the cafeteria, his eyes lazily floating over the heads of the beautiful demigods until they find my gaze. He smiles at me, unfreezing from his stone coldness. Tentatively, I smile back, wondering if he merely wants his sword back, or if there's something else promoting his warmth.

"Look, Paige," I whisper, nudging her with my spoon, "it's Ogden and Raffe. Hope they're okay… I wonder why Ogden's here all of the sudden?"

I answer my own question silently – it could very well be that Bryon had passed on information of the Tyab'la to the Nephilim he trusts most.

"He was off with the Seraphim last time I checked," puffs Hugo, sliding down beside me. His hair sticks in bizarre directions, a style clearing created by the long, slobbering laps he'd received at the hands of the mutt thumping to the ground beside us. "Double-checking arrangements, organizing troop forces – the angels are out of Africa, by the way. When Audiat and her band of evil pigeons comes, they'll be on edge about that, looking for explanations Uriel will be happy to supply."

I scowl. "That bastard. I hate him. Does Audiat have a story? What's her tale?"

"That Pigeon-Bat here" – as Raffe swoops down to the seat beside Paige, Hugo leans over the table and hits him twice on the head with a plastic fork – "didn't have time to exterminate all the Nephilim what with Uriel's manhunt, and that now that the Nephilim are full grown, they're attacking with spite. For all the American aeries know, African aeries were getting it on often. They don't know enough about humans to know that women only have babies once a year, so, you know what, I guess it's totally probable for them to accept the theory that there's herds of new Nephilim running around."

Raffe cocks an eyebrow as he adjusts in his seat, glancing around at the high ceiling and the she-angels flitting back and forth. "That angel is confusing – it's like she's trying to stir up trouble against the Nephilim."

Hugo shrugs answerlessly. "I suppose she's wagering that Bryon's as good as covering his tracks as he was last time. Which, Pigeon-Bat, he is sort of the expert on – disappearing. But can he make an entire species disappear?" Sighing, Hugo shakes his head from side to side. "I'm not so sure. We can only stage you killing so many Nephilim before angels begin to wanna try themselves, and then we've got both angry angels and Nephilim seeking vengeance for their loved ones."

"It seems like it can only descend and get worse and worse, until there's an all-out war between Nephilim and angels," I agree, swirling my pancake around my syrup, drowning in the peril of the future. "What does Bryon think?"

_What does Bryon ever think?_ Ogden shakes his head, making the slight bitterness laced through his thoughts even sharper. _That was a trick question, he never tells us anything. Keeps to himself. I've gone with some pretty ridiculous plans, but this? This takes the cake. With all his coddling, he doesn't know what a Nephilim of any caliber can and will do when faced with the decision to either kill or die themselves. He forgets he himself is half angel. Half ruthless. Sometimes, I think more than half._

"Have a snickers bar." Hugo draws one from the pocket of his jacket and sends it spinning over the table towards the ancient Nephilim. "It'll make you feel better. Besides, Bryon's always been the God to that angel part, the God that real God never was to his real angels. He's not afraid to whip them into shape. You remember what happened when Emilio first earned a place under his wing."

"I don't," I insert. "What happened?"

* * *

Maion watches the Dragon King dismount from the slender beast, patting its matted fur a few times as he does so. Patiently, she waits for him to join her on a descent downstairs, reminiscences of her past interactions with the now ancient man swirl through her mind, reminding her that no hurrying or harrying will speed him any more than he will be sped.

Murmuring something in that specific language of his, a language only spoken by the other leading Nephilim, the one that surpasses the title ancient, Bryon takes the wolf's head between his hands, massaging its cheeks as it pants heavily. Icy blue eyes meet bronze, and Bryon leans his forehead against the wolf, still whispering and soothing, cupping the wolf's face as if it is a beloved child.

Chuckling to himself, as if he'd just told a joke for his ears only, Bryon closes his eyes. Following his example, the wolf folds its salt and pepper ears back, and keens longingly. If Maion hadn't known better, she'd had have called it a grieving weep. Observing the beast and the man with a polite, distant professionalism, she does not give any indication of her inner frothing confusion.

"Go get some rest," Bryon chuckles, giving the wolf a firm pat on its grey neck. "I'll call you if I need you."

The wolf snorts, shaking out its mane where Bryon had flattened it, and flexes his long, silvery feathers to the sky. It rests there, allowing the wind to sift through pelt and plumage, as still as Ariel's eerie sphinxes.

"Bryon." Maion greets him with a handshake, which he takes gladly. "It's been a long, long time. How have you done?"

"Altogether?" Bryon throws back his head in his signature warm laughter. "Alright. But recently?" Again he laughs, but there's a more prudent note in it. "Now, that, I'm receiving mixed signals on, myself. And you, Maion? How is Metatron?"

Maion's lips quaver. Without heeding to notice, she crosses her arm over her chest and grabs her own shoulder for comfort. "We're alright. Finding ways around her disability. She's just – really stressed. That rotten old she-wolf is…" She allows her words to slip away.

As Bryon studies her, Maion can envision the scene Audiat had so vividly described upon her first time stumbling around him as a beast – his shadow falling upon her, equipped to be terrible yet only beautiful, and two wide, bronze eyes studying her like searchlights in the shadows, seeing through every wall or boundary she may attempt to erect around her thoughts.

"You should try getting in touch with Hugo," Bryon advises kindly. "He's made human arms have feathers, I'm sure it would be quite simple for him to correct a pair of wings. See?"

With a beautiful flutter of his brown cloak, Bryon bares the mechanical addition resting on his bicep.

"I think her problem lies more within fear than disability." Maion shrugs. "True, her wings are small, but even if we were to fix something for her, I do not believe she would be able to make herself fly. The humiliation of that would be more terrible than the shame she already faces."

A sad smile splits Bryon's face. "Then it is good this idea was presented to you rather than her. I wonder if –" He cuts off as two dark shapes dart past, one in hot pursuit of the other, their wakes sending flat blades of wind against their cheeks. Bryon's cloak billows around his legs, seeming almost irritated with the sudden motion it'd been thrust into.

Two pairs of inky black wings shadow against the morning light as they pirouette together – one pair is crooked and bladed, belonging to a villain of the most incorrigible description, and the other pair colossal, their spectral folds surpassing thirty feet in length. The faultless, shadowed black of those wings blanket the sky, jotting out the sun, a movement accompanied by a ferocious bellow.

"Roar!" the smaller winged creature barks back. "You're going to ruin your vocal chords! Then you won't be able to sing me to sleep, Daddy Dearest!"

"Oh, dear," Bryon sighs. "That boy doesn't know what's good for him. I'll be right back, right after I finish with this, alright?"

"Oh, alright." Maion's eyes widen even further as Satan breathes a plume of sizzling red fire into the sky. "Ariel isn't going to like this."

"She most definitely isn't," Bryon agrees grimly, "and that's why it's best to finish this before it ever really begins. Pepper, you go home, I can fly by myself. You deserve the rest."

The wolf whines in protest, its mouth falling open, as if it wills to verbally argue Bryon's command.

"No, I'm fine. You go."

Maion watches the powerful Nephilim as he hops up onto the railing beside a cherub, watches as his broad shoulders square and his head tilts upwards. Over his ears, two rough horns begin to curl, thickening into wooden spires from his temples. A thundering growl begins to rumble in the pit of Bryon's throat, growing more and more animal with each passing second.

Taking a deep breath, Bryon roars. Maion inhales sharply, recalling the days long past and how she used to shiver with fear at the sound of him – days before she knew the Dragon King, before he had shown her his benevolence and nobility. The sound echoes down the triangle, causing many angels to lock their wings in air, sending them spiraling downwards for a few stories before they catch themselves.

"You're going to ruin your vocal chords, too!" the demon jeers.

* * *

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	48. Chapter Forty-Seven

**Chapter Forty Seven**

Hugo flicks a hand dismissively in response to my question, as if informing me of what had occurred when my uncle and Emilio had first crossed paths is prosaic and boring. "When Bryon first taught Emilio to fight, the little bugger was fatherless and fifteen with an attitude. To help cure him of that attitude, Bryon would tape Emilio's wings to his back and chuck him off of cliffs."

Paige gasps, her horror reflecting mine. "No way."

"Didn't believe it until I saw it myself." Shrugging, Hugo leans back in his seat. "It was always into the sea or some other body of water, and he'd always fish him out afterwards, make him a cup of cocoa with Belgian chocolate and sling the cloak over his shoulders. Helps remind you that, although he's a good and gracious guy, Bryon don't take no shit from no one. If he was gonna school that boy, he was at least gonna school him into a gentlemanly little fuck of an assassin."

"An assassin?" Raffe inquires sharply, furrowing his brow. "Is that what the Hispanic's considered?"

"More like an elite warrior-general type thing," Bay corrects cheerfully, at last separating from his carousing with the Watchers to join the conversation. "A super soldier, if you will, under the direct command of Bryon. Emilio's kicked and scratched to get his way to the top; don't get in his way. He's an angsty Chuck Norris with wings."

"I don't care who's protecting my daughter-in-law," Sariel thunders with an impressive belch, "so long as he doesn't let a single hair on her head get so much as singed. Else I'll scalp the boy myself."

"'Course you will." Hugo furtively rolls his eyes in my direction, making an exasperated face I've only ever seen on middle school girls. "Right after your nap, eh, great and powerful?"

"I hope you won't be napping with the likes of those," calls the chilling voice I've learned to fear. The sound of metal and bone scraping sets my teeth on edge as the demon furls his wings by his side. Raffe's lip curls, and he throws his chair backwards with the alacrity he stands with.

She-angels begin to trickle out of the cafeteria in greater numbers and in more dense groups, but the drama halts them in their tracks, causing them to set down along the walls and watch in what they perhaps think is subtly.

"The hell do you mean?" Sariel booms, his golden brow furrowing. "And where's Big and Ugly?"

"I have your son to thank for that." Halfheartedly, Lucius shakes a fist in the air. "Let's go, muscles! In repayment, I must offer him something, though, so I suppose this is good enough. Find better company to nap with."

A few outraged cries echo throughout the Watchers, but whether their anger springs from misinterpretation or truth, I'm not certain. Lucius has the stage, however, as a hush falls over the previously chatty she-angels – the mere mention of Bryon had sent them into a quiet, respectful silence.

Raffe pounds his fist on the table as Lucius begins to stride back to his vodka, causing my pancakes to wobble. "Elaborate, you monster."

"M-word," grunts a warm, familiar voice. I swirl around to see Bryon walking through the balcony, holding one of his metal feathers in a single hand, as if it'd broken off from the old wings. "But do as he says, Lucius."

Lucius sighs in exasperation. "I mean I wouldn't go napping with the likes of old Bear over there snooping about, especially if you've got important documents lying around. That's all I'm willing to give."

A rush of conversation scurries around the cafeteria. As it silences, I notice Belle perched on the back of an empty chair, her eyes wide and curious.

"Ogden?" Bryon's voice is sharp, his eyes narrowed. "What does he mean?"

Ogden looks absolutely terrified.

And I snap.

"You know what?" I stand up alongside Raffe, complying to the blaze of heat at my heart. "I'm so sick of your bullshit, Lucius. You go around bullying and blackmailing and then expect us all to pity you. That I can handle. But framing Ogden? Making it so that he won't be able to go anywhere without suspicion? Putting him under a magnifying glass? Goddammit, I am through with you thinking that you can just pin everybody beneath your thumb with your threats and scary glares. I –"

Upon the receiving ends of one of those scary glares, I feel my breath leave me and my courage escaping with it, trickling from my bones and pooling around me. From beneath the lens of his sunglasses, I can feel ire burning, gnawing at the panes, imploring to be released upon me.

"If you must know, Miss Young," Lucius says with an eerie calm, like the serene sky before a tempest breaks, "the information you extract from me was information that shall cause Ogden his fall, despite what he may think or believe now."

"Better to have the truth out there than be caught in blackmail," I assert, trying to maintain my brave face before the hundreds of curious gazes now trained on me.

Ogden's wide, brown eyes swing to me, shimmering with fear, and only then do I doubt my statement.

"Fine." Lucius's eyebrows perk. "Ogden was not only the one responsible for paying the Seraph to hand your boyfriend's wings off to Uriel, but he was also the one to suggest using the Horses in the first place. And not just one. All four. Tell me, Young, is the truth better than my warning for him to cover his tracks better?"

If I had considered the lack of voices to be a silence before, I had not known the utter stillness in the air now. An angel's feather falls to the ground, and, as it hits the tiles, I swear the silence is suffocating the air enough to hear Lucius is the only one that seems to move, returning to his seat and pouring another glass of vodka. The strangest part is that Ogden, though humiliated and shrinking on himself, almost seems relieved.

"Oh, also." Lucius looks up from his toast, his expression one of deadly leisure. "He's planning on creating civil war amongst the Nephilim. 'Down with the Dragon' would be an excellent campaign motto, if he was going to run an election like a civil creature." Lucius smiles and nods sarcastically. "I agree with you on this one, Penryn." A cruel, serpentine smile pulls at the corners of his lips. "It was definitely much better for me to tell the truth rather than blackmailing him. Good thinking, wifey."

Silence.

Utter silence.

The voice that next imperturbably seeps through the room like icy poison makes me long for the silence once more.

"Those that have no right to be here," Bryon says coolly, "should take their lunch and leave. I will not ask again."

The brilliant light haloing Bryon seems to intensify around him, as if the sun has finally crept over the ridge of the triangle to blast behind him for this exact moment – his face is dark as ebony velvet, his eyes blazing like a pair of coins, and his fangs curling from the corners of his mouth like ivory tusks.

And, as both angels and human servants bustle out the door, they part around him, like the Red Sea before Moses. My attempts at a hasty repeat are marred as Hugo grabs my arm and pulls me back down to the table. Sariel hands Paige off to Bay, who, alongside the rest of the Watchers, swiftly escapes.

The two horns that wrap around Bryon's head seem to grow thicker, shading his eyes more, making the two discs of bronze even more of a contrast to his face. "Lucius. Leave."

The demon doesn't look up from his vodka to flash Bryon his middle finger.

Despite the audacity Lucius's ardent refusal, Bryon takes no notice of it. Instead, he strides angrily towards Ogden, eyes ablaze with fury. The staff taps an ominous heartbeat onto the stone floor.

"Do explain," Bryon commands chillingly, the disks of bronze narrowing, "what he meant by that, Ogden."

He'd been shivering, cowering from Bryon, while the people had trickled away, perhaps merely for show, perhaps to only portray my uncle as a merciless bane of old men. Now that we're alone, Raffe, Sariel, Hugo, Bryon, and I, he stiffens his spine and rises from his seat, ignoring Sariel's drunken glares and Raffe's curled lip, ignoring even the faltering mask Hugo wears over his heartbroken bewilderment.

Without fear nor malice, Ogden sidesteps into the center of the aisle, positioning himself between the lunch tables carefully. Once severe and crippling, his old injuries seem to affect his gait in the minimum. Though his eyes don't maintain the dramatic ring of bronze as he meets Bryon's gaze, their chocolaty color darkens into inky black.

"You are unfit to rule," Hugo whispers, watching Ogden with betrayal in his eyes. It takes me a moment to realize that he's perhaps intercepting Ogden's thoughts and playing them out for us. "I did what I had to, my son. You must understand that. I only want what's best for the Nephilim."

Blinking several times, Bryon balances his staff in the crook of his arm, his lips twisting into an expression of cold disbelief. "So it's true, then?"

Ogden cocks his head to one side like a dog. "I have no reason to deny it. I am caught doing what is best – shoot me if you think otherwise."

"And you think what's best for us is to be torn apart by civil war?" Bryon whispers incredulously, shaking his head slightly and causing the beams of sunlight to dance between his horns. Had Raffe not been vaulting over the table to sit in the vacated seat beside me, I would've noticed the emotional tremble in his voice.

Ogden lowers his eyes to his feet, unfurling his haggard hands and looking into his palms.

"It was not an easy decision, but one that had to be made."

Bryon turns his back on Ogden, raking his hands through his hair and taking a deep breath. His eyes roll shut and his brow screws up, causing my heart to pinch – memories of Bryon tagging adoring compliments upon Ogden, the one he'd said had become his father, the one he had treated with utmost respect all of my time with them.

Ogden stands still as a statue, not a tinge of remorse gleaming in his gaze – all I see is grim acceptance of an enemy. A shiver rattles down my spine at the utter indifference dulling his eyes, causing Raffe's hand to linger at my waist. Through the glance we exchange, I realize he's having just as hard a time wrapping his head around Ogden's apparent treachery.

With a deep, steady breath inwards, Bryon turns back to Ogden, eyes flat and emotionless like a shark's.

"And do you mind telling me why I'm unfit to rule?" Bryon demands bitterly. "Why you choose now, a time of unrest and chaos, to impeach after all these centuries of compliance?"

"Because you were a different man all those centuries." Ogden's gaze grows harder. "You've changed, Bryon. They say knowledge is power, and maybe it is, because something in you has been missing for the longest time. I hardly know who you are anymore – maybe it's knowledge that changed you, maybe it's loneliness. There was a time when I would've called you my son. But I don't know who or what you are."

"_I'd still call you father!_" Bryon snaps, whipping his staff around and causing a few sparks to crackle at the tip. They smolder in shades of orange and purple upon the tiles. "And _people change_! You've changed too, I see. You power hungry old man!"

Ogden shifts into a fighting stance as well.

"This has nothing to do with power – I do what I must, Bryon. It all started with that angel girl of yours – you grew soft, Bryon. You never were the most tenacious of people, but your will turned to putty. You've forgotten your first and only responsibility is to your family."

"My only tie is to my family!" Bryon snarls in indignation.

"Your real family, not those that have consanguinity!" Ogden begins to circle Bryon like a lion capturing its kill. "Not the Seraphim! Not the she-angels! Not even the goddamned monkeys! But to your family!"

"I have been nothing but loyal." Bryon's blazing eyes follow Ogden as the older Nephilim circles the younger. "You are as heartless as an old shoe! Forgive me for saving a few more lives along the way. How dare I despair over the loss of life!"

"There is a difference between taking pity and being stupid." Ogden throws his hands into the air. "What were you _thinking_, taking Raphael in? He's not a puppy dog someone left out in the rain. He's going to kill every one of us. And even if you've worked your magic, then we should at least kill him before his brain becomes polluted once more! He knows all of our secrets, you idiot! Don't you tell me he isn't going change back, because he is, the moment his Daughter of Man dies and he forgets the reasons he softened in the first place – and he will right his sins! The façade of peace is an illusion of your own creation, and when it crumbles, all of us will pay!"

"Do you want our people to become bloodthirsty war dogs?" Bryon cries, looking alarmed. "We're separated by a hair from monsters, Ogden. You wish to thrust us into savagery by forgetting that!"

"The angels are reportedly the savage ones, yet look at who's at the top of the food chain. You wish to become the bottom dwellers, to replace the demons at the bottom of the food chain." Hugo's fists tighten at Ogden's words, undoubtedly harboring thoughts of Bay. "Life isn't all butterflies and rainbows and a God that cares whether you do good or bad."

My uncle bares his teeth. "Oh, so we're getting metaphysical here, are we? You want to send the Nephilim into depression by stripping them of their King, their God, and their dignity. How would you make a decent leader for my people, never mind a good leader? You would crush them!"

"I would succeed where you have failed. It is plenty fine to feel emotion, but it isn't acceptable to be driven by it. I am the Father of the Nephilim. It is time for me to take my place at the head of the house."

Bryon takes a step back, slowly shaking his head, holding his staff in his hands like a teddy bear. "Why?" he whispers heartbrokenly as the light from the balcony ripples around his head. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because something's changed in you." For the first time, Ogden allows himself to display the same heartbreak that's been demolishing Hugo's calm. "You're not my Bryon. You've lost sight of who you are, gotten too tangled up in your web of benevolence and belligerence, dedicated yourself too much to answers and not enough to your people."

"I _love my people!_" Bryon roars, a single tear tracing down his cheek. "I am doing _what is best for them_! I would give my life for any one of them in an instant!"

"But your life doesn't mean anything!" Ogden buries his face in his hands and lets out a frustrated bellow. "I've seen all the signs, Bryon! The way you act when you think no one is looking! The things you do when the eclipse hangs overhead! You dare to call yourself even half human!"

Bryon's face shuts down all of its emotions. "I will not discuss that. For your own good. Keep your noes out of that business."

"Bryon!" Agonized, Ogden turns his back on my uncle, clawing down his face. "You torture me so! But how could you not have expected this? First, your instant 'forgiveness' of the one I know you hate more than anything else in this world, and then you took him into a Chaza? What were you thinking?"

"You suggested that!" I accuse, feeling the need to stand up for Bryon as my uncle's expression continues to dissolve behind his impassive veneer.

"Sit down," Hugo hisses, grabbing my arm and tugging me back to my seat. His hand, tight around my forearm, shivers slightly, opening my eyes to the tremble running through his body. "He actually suggested that we feed Raphael to the cherubs to get them to slow down, and then retreat into the Chaza for safety."

"My opinion of him just goes up and up," Raffe mutters darkly.

Ogden lifts his lips in a cruel, angry sneer. "Your days are numbered, Wrath. If I don't rip out your heart, then this one's sweetheart will. Hold your tongue."

"Enough of your threatening!" Bryon thunders. "Tell me this –" Bryon sidesteps between the piercing glares of Raffe and Ogden to regain his attention. "How many have sided with you? How many see me unfit to rule? For if the grand majority leans in your favor, I will step down. I am a slave to their desires, as any king should be." A rough cruelty enters his voice. "Only lie to me if you desire your exile from this place to be all the more soon."

Defiantly, Ogden holds Bryon's gaze. Hugo utters no words, shrugging after a few seconds to indicate that nothing is being said.

"Fine." Bryon's voice, though devoid of undiluted spite, holds a more venomous tone to it – and it's a tone I know so very well, a tone I've used myself after bitter betrayals. "I'm sorry it had to work out like this, Ogden. I won't harm you if I can avoid it, but I refuse to give up my people. If you could perhaps keep your avarice in a few years longer and allow me to banish the he-angels before you stir up this much trouble, I would very much appreciate it."

His cloak flutters around his legs, its gentle undulations seeming more poignant than usual, as if biding Ogden a mourning farewell.

Ogden studies Bryon, his expression growing marginally softer. "I would if I could, Bryon. But I cannot allow you to lead us into failure. Time after time, I've given you opportunities to change back to the way you used to be. To put your people first. You can't lead us, my son."

Sariel makes the table shiver, his massive fist pounding against the wood. "_My_ son."

Ignoring his father, Bryon lifts his gaze back to Ogden's, meeting it levelly. "I was not aware of any tests. And my family always comes first."

"True." Ogden tips his head in acknowledgement. "You were not made aware. But the best tests are the ones done with subtlety and surprise. However… that wasn't the final nail in the board. If you treated your own family as brusquely as you did poor Penryn, then how could I trust you with mine?"

"What do you mean?" Bryon questions, eyes darting to me, seemingly drawing comfort from my equal surprise.

"You allow her to stay by the side of that monster!" Ogden releases an appalled howl. "You know very well of what he is, what he could've done to her! Obviously, if you did not see my resentment, you are more oblivious to temperaments then you seem to believe – what if you'd been wrong about him?! She would've paid the price! And why? So she could soften him up, make him vulnerable to your brainwashing?"

Beside me, Raffe shifts uncomfortably – I attempt to ignore the furtive glance he shoots my direction, just as he attempts to ignore mine.

"He's right!" sings Lucius, tipping back another glass of vodka.

"And don't even get me started on that demon!" Ogden growls like an animal. "Sending her to him? How dare you! Even I, one not of the Young family name, can feel horror in that choice! He ripped out your brother's heart and stole her mother's sanity! And you sent another of your family into his clutches? How could you?! How could you?!"

"Love you too," Lucius mumbles, daintily inspecting the glass he holds in one hand.

"My point is" – Ogden steps closer to Bryon, gaze distrustful and odious – "you have no right to play the innocent, betrayed card. I know what you've done. I've seen the body count. And it's not all from your early, bloody days, is it, Bryon? _Our secret_. And for that reason, I'm leaving you."

Bryon squares his shoulders. "If it's a war you want, it's a war you'll get."

Ogden's head whips around to the table. No longer do I need Hugo to translate, for his words echo through my thoughts, their powerful tones not nearly as beautiful as they had been mere hours before. The formerly soft, gentle chocolate of his eyes has hardened into stone.

_Hugo, come. We're leaving. _

Perhaps I'm the only one that catches the momentary flash of heartrending panic on Bryon's face – certainly, everyone sees the way his head snaps up from its miserable position, sees the way his eyes flare to life with new passion.

Hugo stalls, hesitating, looking close to tears himself – like a child watching his two parents going through a divorce, almost. "Um, I'm not sure."

Ogden's eyes widen, as if Hugo's hesitance was something he'd not anticipated. Startled, he takes an aggressive step towards the boy, and holds out a hand firmly. _Hugo! We need to leave! Our presence will not be long allowed here!_

"Hugo." Bryon's soft, malleable voice causes Hugo to lift his head. I know that one could drown in those rich bronze eyes, which is exactly what the boy seems to be doing. "It's alright if you don't choose me. Go where makes you happiest, and don't look back." His lips quirk sadly. "I want you to be happy, understand?"

"Yes, sir." Hugo nods stiffly. He leans over his lap, elbows propped up against his knees, pinching the bridge of his nose. Sariel seems immensely worried behind Raffe and I, his mouth opening and closing like a grounded fish, watching his adopted grandson with wide, frightened eyes.

_We're a team, Hugo._ Ogden looks positively perturbed. _You are the inventor and I am your blacksmith. You are the brain and I am the hands you guide. I need you as much as you need me. I am your welder. _

"Which is why I'm not going anywhere." He sucks in a deep breath, not allowing himself to glance at Ogden's stunned expression. "I think you'd better leave, Ogden. Anyone can weld and bend metal, but it takes someone special to touch a heart that's all crusty and hollow like mine. I don't want to be your brain. So get out of here, and don't you dare let me see you again."

_Very well. _My lips perk into a sadistic smile at the disappointed, hateful undertone in Ogden's words. The old cripple hobbles off, his silvery black wings unfurling with a snarl of metal. Glancing back once vehemently at the family he leaves behind in quest of saving another, Ogden lifts his wings and soars off.

Sariel moans and buries his head in his hands – the mixture of alcohol in the early morning and the sudden roil of emotions undoubtedly stirring his guts can't be the most settling recipe. Overtaken by disbelief, I yearn to lean against Raffe, to borrow some of his strength just for the shortest moment, before I must face Paige, before I must face Bay, but degrading myself by seeking him is surely a plea for mockery later.

Raffe makes my choice easy by lifting the arm previously around my waist so that it encircles my shoulders, clutching me against him. His opposite hand finds mine, and his thumb moves in gentle circles over the back of my hand.

"Bastard," Raffe says through gritted teeth, face contorted with a powerful ire.

Hugo doesn't bother to respond, though his intentions are quite clear – instead of refuting Raffe's insult, he casts one surly glance towards the archangel, rises, brushing past Bryon, and joins Lucius's table. Collapsing in a chair and grasping the bottle's neck, he downs the last of the vodka with a single swallow.

Astonishingly, Lucius has no snarky words for Hugo. Instead, with a face as impassive as Death itself, he reaches beneath the table and grasps another bottle, setting it on the table for the wounded warrior.

Perhaps more astonishing is that Bryon downs the entire bottle.

* * *

**And here we go. There won't be very many happy moments from this point out, folks. I recommend finding a happy place. **

**POLL: Several times, we've seen someone poke a stick at Lucius. But instead of attacking like a rabid dog, he has a much more specific and wounding retaliation. If he does get pushed enough, what extents do you believe he'll go to? And how deadly is he, really?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	49. Chapter Forty-Eight

**Chapter Forty Eight**

Audiat unzips her leather jacket as she enters the room, already hearing the resounding heartbeat of another echoing near the kitchen. Like thunder, it seems to shake the apartment; for seconds, she ponders whether the tremendous, booming beat is louder than it should be, but it quiets, like a mouse in the presence of a hawk.

"Hello!" she calls cheerfully, fearing not who her words may reach, knowing quite well the creature lurking about in the dark recesses of her room. Slinging the jacket over a chair, Audiat bustles into the living room, grinning beatifically at the Nephilim draped in shadows.

"I officially invited the angels Ariel and I decided would be best fit to hear Raphael's speech today!" she chirps, trotting into the kitchen only to wipe a smudge of pudding that's stained the Nephilim's chin away, not noticing his stormy scowl or the troubled look fazing the usual impassive gleam in his chocolate brown eyes. "We invited those that we thought'd have enough respect to verify what they see but still would remain obedient to the hands-off rule. Josiah, of course. Also, a few of Raphael's best friends – at least, Ariel says they're his best friends. Shame about Yaoel, he would've made the list for sure. We had to invite Titaniel – I really didn't want to, he's a brute, and I think he's going to become my boss. Besides, what kind of a name is Titaniel, anyway? Does he have a nickname? His buds must have fun with that one…" Audiat twirls around on one heel, facing Emilio inquisitively. "You haven't even spoken up once. What's up?"

Once chatty and just as jubilant as her to cross the swords of eloquence and hidden insults, the Nephilim now sits in utter silence, his wings limp and his hands trailing weakly by his side.

"What's wrong?" whispers Audiat, her eyes going round. "What's happened? Is it Bryon?"

As if remembering that he indeed is one that must never be seen as anything other than invincible, his throat clears, and his shoulders roll back into their powerful position. "Listen to me. The King has given very specific orders. It is my job and my job alone to protect you – he trusts no one else. See another Nephilim, and you notify me. I am also not permitted to leave your side, and for that, I apologize – shadows can be irritating."

Audiat's limbs freeze up, the dark trickling of dread first beginning to flicker on the outer edges of her imagination. "What's happened, Emilio? Why are we wary of other Nephilim?"

* * *

With shards of ice in his gaze, Daine explodes through the pair of doors guarding the entrance to Secrem Domu. All the Nephilim lounging lazily about the courtyard stiffen, their salutes allowing them to hide the beer bottles behind their backs. Aside from Miguel, who drunkenly rolls around like a sick dog, they begin to blush and form the opening sentence to their apologies – Daine had been locked up within the stone walls so long that they had forgotten his urges for them to give up the tempting alcohol.

The morning sun glints off of Daine's light armor, adding a wicked gleam to his eyes. like a rogue king in a valiant video game. But perhaps the most frightening thing of all is that Daine seems deeply perturbed by something – calm, levelheaded, and open-minded, he'd never seemed to have any issues accepting any news.

"Attention." It's not an order, nor is it a request – in fact, it closely resembles the opening of a speech. "This group shall not be heading out to Africa to help secure the lands. In fact, no group shall. Make sure to spread that about with your rumors – and please do it truthfully."

A surprised murmur echoes around the courtyard. With confusion in their eyes, Nephilim turn and look about, wondering what could possibly have happened. Worry begins to worm into their guts – although most look confused but obedient, a few seem strung-up and nervous, fidgeting wildly.

Daine begins to turn back to retreat back inside of the castle, but pauses, halfway pivoted towards the door. His fist clenches, and then begins to shake. Perhaps it isn't purposeful, the way he angles his head, so that none can read his expression.

"If you know why we're staying here," he calls, "God help your soul. Bryon's started a witchhunt."

And, without another word, Daine strides back into the castle, allowing the soldiers the slightest glimpse of his son gawking stupidly in the hallway before they swing shut again.

* * *

Bryon enters Audiat's room with a long inhale, and, for half a second, I think for a moment I see my uncle again. Almost as if he's struggling to escape the iron shackles Ogden's betrayal had fastened around his wrists, he hesitates, something remarkably akin to agony flickering over his face. His eyes flutter closed, long eyelashes sealing over his bloodshot bronze eyes like bars over a prison window, and his mouth opens halfway, as if to coat his tongue in the sweet, sweet scent. Swallowing down his soft emotions with another breath, Bryon's face returns to its impassive façade, not to be touched or bothered by silly things like this bucolic reminder of home.

With a deadly gleam in his eyes so unlike the benevolent man I'd grown accustomed to, he strides to the center of the room and paces restlessly back and forth, throwing his staff down on the couch where Raffe had slept in order to free his hands. The tapping of his shoes against the floor is like the brisk, pattering heartbeat of a trapped mouse.

"Hugo," he murmurs at last, speaking to the boy perched high up in Audiat's hammock. "Hugo, how many of our allies are not Nephilim?"

Sighing jadedly, Hugo rolls around, spilling a few stuffed animals to the floor where they fall on the bemused Scruffy. "Definitely not the Seraphim. We've got about two hundred of my people. The she-angels. That's our numbers right now."

Bryon runs both of his hands through his hair, and resumes pacing.

"How could Ogden…?" I whisper, staring out the balcony window.

"I should've seen it coming." Bitterly, Hugo turns back over in his hammock, mumbling darkly all the way. "I should've, I should've, I should've…"

"Ogden was too smart for us." Sighing tersely, Bryon halts abruptly in his pacing, studying the rug vehemently. "He never spoke, so disguising his voice was never an issue. Those without a voice are disregarded in society. So long as he played his part, he had us at our leashes. Do not blame yourself."

Raffe sighs, drawing my attention back to the statuesque archangel. Poised and perfect, he leans against the frame of a stained glass window, throwing a ruby red apple up, allowing the light of morning to bathe its surface in color and vibrancy. In his eyes swirl a toil of color and confusion.

"I suppose I'll have to get back to killing Nephilim." Again, he sighs, this time more heavily. "That's not good for public appeal. Goddamn Nephilim politics…"

Bryon's spine stiffens at the insult, causing his head to violently buck backwards, but, as he stares sideways at Raffe, one bronze eyeball only visible, he seems to calm himself.

"I'm sure you'll find a way to manage," he says brusquely, forcing himself to return to his pacing.

"I don't understand, either." Ariel cocks her head, tipping her head backwards, as if to think staring up at Audiat's starry ceiling. "Why? And, Bryon…" In accordance with her, the cherubs at her feet swivel their heads to my uncle. "What did he mean, when he said that you sinned? Is there something I don't know about? Tell me now."

"You'd prefer it if I didn't," Bryon chuckles darkly, sounding as if he could erase his memories, he would in a heartbeat. "But it doesn't affect me or my leadership, nor my support of the she-aerie. Therefore, you have no reason to take interest in it. More compelling questions are the likes of this: how many are supporting him? Do we really control Africa, or does he? How many among us are rats?"

Ariel's eyes slide sideways leoninely. "I went through the same thing with Laylah and her most recent betrayal. Who do you trust enough to place your life in their hands?"

Growling with a short burst of his pent-up aggression, Bryon hurls himself at one of Audiat's drawing desks, causing the entire structure to rattle. He breathes heavily, like a savage man, hunched over and gripping the edges of the desk until his knuckles turn white. "Arabella. Femi. My brother. _They're all fucking dead, Ariel_."

With short, measured breaths, I stare at him as he quivers terrifyingly, my mouth opening slightly in a silent exclamation of alarm. Racking my memory, the worse word I've ever heard my uncle use was "bastards" when discussing the "angelic bastards" with friends. Never before have I heard him use anything more intense, neither have I heard the deep, gravelly snarl he speaks with now. Though Hugo doesn't stir, even Raffe seems startled, dropping the apple and adjusting Pooky Bear by his side.

"Well, yes, boo-hoo for you." Ariel's eyes narrow in a manner some may call cruel. "However, you don't know just three people. There'll be time for moping and mopping up tears later. Now, tell me who you trust, or I'll find out myself."

Bryon seems to still, as if Ariel's utter indifference to his agony had reminded him of something to keep him level-headed. Rolling his shoulders back, he turns to her, jaw set in a firm line.

"Daine."

* * *

"Oh, Mako," Daine whispers into his boy's hair, gently stroking his back. So tightly he hugs the child that his son would've never had the chance to tell that his father was weeping had not a great tear fallen upon his shoulder with a plop sounding louder than a shriek. The chill of the salty liquid as it seeps through the fabric of his T-shirt and slinks down his back sends a shiver up Mako's spine.

"Dad?" he whispers worriedly, not understanding what could be happening – for how could a boy comprehend the meaning of war, or the sacred horror of betrayal? Daine bites his lip to stem the tears welling beneath his eyes.

War, Daine realizes, is ugly – and with everything ugly, there must be at least one thing beautiful. Enough people will shunt his sons into becoming warriors, into squashing their emotions and making them into anything but they are. Their father shall not be the first to toughen them up – Daine decides he'll be the one to keep them soft.

"Listen to me," Daine urges, shoving back his child, not bothering to wipe the tears from his eyes or quell the mad urgency in his voice. His hands grip at Mako's shoulders, causing the boy to quiver. "Listen to me. Bad things are going to happen, Mako. Mommy or I might not walk through that door again. But whatever happens, you promise me that you'll never, ever forget who you are." Daine's smile trembles, and his voice lowers to an exigent hiss. "_Don't you ever grow up._ Don't you ever stop building things with Legos or pretending that your fries are lightsabers or that the hedge at the corner of the plaza is an alien base, you hear me? _Never, ever lose sight of who you are. It will be the end of you_."

On the verge of tears himself, seeing his invulnerable father quaking like a dead leaf caught in a gale, Mako nods stiffly. Terrified, he stammers, "Y-yes Daddy! Okay! Yes, sir!"

"Good!" Daine cries, releasing his boy and shooting to his feet. Rubbing away a tear, he smiles down at Mako, lips still shaking slightly.

But Mako doesn't smile back.

Eyes round with terror, Mako stumbles away, retreating down the hall as quick as his legs can carry him. A single tear traces down his fat cheek. With a small shriek of terror, Mako flees, streaking down the hallway without a glance back.

* * *

"Anyone else?" Ariel harrumphs disapprovingly. "You don't make many friends."

Bryon shrugs. "Emilio."

* * *

"Emilio?" Audiat repeats, stepping closer to the distraught man. The innocent fear in her eyes reminds him of his own sister, bringing back a terrible roll of emotions lodging in his throat, bringing a fresh wave of liquid to pool in the corners of his eyes.

Thrusting back his head to hide his face from the tiny angel, Emilio swallows in a vain attempt to berid himself of this emotion, this one tie that makes him human. Perhaps if he can swallow his humanity, he addles his mind to believe, then he'll make things better. His hands plunge into his pockets to disguise their slight tremor.

"What's going on?" The worry gleaming in her eyes surpasses the curiosity, as if she knows that something is most definitely wrong, and she doesn't in her heart want to know what – deliriously, Emilio wonders what'd tipped her off. The tremble? The lack of composure? The silence?

The silence.

Most definitely his complete and utter silence.

But, as a sensation of hopelessness wells up in his chest with the fury of an inferno, Emilio realizes that he won't be silent for long.

"Emilio?" Her red eyes shine in the darkness.

"_I don't know!_" he wails, dam breaking suddenly, knees buckling. "_I DON'T KNOW! _I don't! All I know is that… that…_ I can't trust anyone! That _Bryon's_ afraid! So I DON'T KNOW!_"

* * *

"He makes lots of friends," wheezes Hugo from high up in his hammock, "but he doesn't trust many of them. Because trusting someone means giving his heart to them, don't it, Bryon? And in the end, everyone just dies. All around you."

"Thank you for pointing that out. No more vodka for you." Despite his passive-aggressive words, Bryon's words aren't laced with the painstakingly conducted undertones of madness. I don't believe Bryon will ever be angry at Hugo, and the fact that this conclusion remains intact and immaculate gives me some comfort after this little version of Hell seemingly made just for us – even the most down-to-earth can snap, even the most composed have a dam that cracks and floods, and Bryon is no different. He's gone through dark stages before – I've seen evidence of that. Who says that this is anything more than a slight mood swing?

Surely my Bryon will be back before long.

"So, Emilio and Daine." Ariel cocks her head to one side, her pets copying the movement like puppets. "Get them to assemble a small number of their most trusted and you'll have your private armada. Emilio, I understand, is the one protecting Audiat, and Daine the one protecting her castle?"

"You understand perfectly." Bryon sighs coolly, shutting his eyes. "Ariel, you need to refresh your cherub guard, and see if there's any missing. There shouldn't have been an attack last night, but the sooner we know about it, the better."

"Very well." Her lips pulling into an expression of her displeasure at the abrupt dismissal, Ariel rises elegantly, brass gown sweeping around her feet as she stalks towards the balcony. Scruffy licks affectionately at the folds of her dress as she passes but swiftly retracts, coughing, and licking the air. With each roll of his pink tongue, the golden glitter he'd picked up from the dress sparkles.

"You idiot," Hugo chuckles, shaking his head into the hammock.

As Ariel departs in a black and gold swirl, Bryon reanimates, pacing back and forth across the floor, his expression unchanged from its previous mask of intensity. Wrapped deeply in the recesses of his thought, he remains, pacing to and fro with a madman's tenacity. The longer the dullness shines in his eyes and the further the shadows stretch, the greater my overwhelming aura of depression becomes and the more grateful I become for Bay taking Paige out on another adventure. To see Bryon like this, without purpose or certainty, would break her.

Abruptly, after almost a complete hour of silent thought, without so much as a break for the slightest conversation, as if we'd been set on pause, Bryon straightens.

"That's quite enough of that, I believe," he sighs, pivoting towards me. "I'm sorry, Penryn, that you had to see me this way. It must be difficult. I'm only human, if you will." A tearful, benevolent smile pulls at his lips. "I will always, always be here for you, no matter what state I'm in."

"'S okay." I smile almost as halfheartedly as he does. "Came as a shock to all of us. I'll let you know if there's a problem that needs fixing."

"You'd better." He lifts his head to glare at Raffe. "And you'd better keep a careful eye on her. Considering my newly set schedule, I'm not going to have time to fish the monster from its recesses and banish it, so you'd better stick close together, understood?"

"No." With a tingle of fear along my spine, I shoot upwards, eyes rounder than quarters. "Bryon, you can't just – leave us! She-angels are going to die if you don't fix this!"

Bryon's smile is brittle. "I wish I could help, Penryn, I really do, but I have a kingdom to run. Despite what Ogden may believe, I do think about what's best for it. And I'm not sure the monster will strike again – I believe that it's unsure, that it's still trying to deny what it is inside. I believe it was an accident that Bezaliel died. I believe that it'll try to keep from killing again – that could explain the lack of deaths last night."

"What?" I screw up my brow, swinging my legs over the edge of the couch. "Bryon, you told me that –"

"A monster still has emotions, still has regrets, still has a personality, just like everyone else," Bryon lectures, glancing at me, the halcyon yellow of midmorning glowing in his eyes. "You can't forget that, Penryn."

Slowly, I shake my head in disbelief, uncertain of the man before me. "That doesn't change the fact that it's a monster."

With a sigh as soft and sibilant as roiling sea spray, Bryon turns his back on me, his cloak snapping angrily behind him; though if it's angry at him or me, I can't tell. Grabbing his staff from the couch, he strides slowly towards the exit, taking his time, seemingly drinking in his surroundings. I watch him, open-mouthed, still not able to register that he'd simply left me here.

"I'm going to grab a pair of swords from the armory, check up on the human settlement and make sure they know that a giant lizard will be stumbling around the mountains, then head out to face the Horse. Before we clash again, though, I'll have more information on Ogden and his armies. Expect me to be in touch."

"Good luck, Good King Richard," Hugo grunts as Bryon passes beneath him.

A tickle of warmth brushes back into the bronze of his eyes as Bryon tips his head upwards to stare at the child curled up in the mass of stuffed animals.

"Thank you so, so much for choosing me over him," Bryon whispers, closing his eyes and smiling – a real smile, not a fake, flimsy one, but the sort of smile that has audiences coming to tears in movie theaters. "Please, please don't leave me, Hugo. _Please_."

"It wasn't that much of a choice." Hugo peeps through the holes in the netting of the hammock down at Bryon, his copper eyes shining amorously. "I don't need no welder. You're my big, bumbling oaf, you hear? And I'm your scrawny little idiot. Understand that under normal circumstances, that'd be accompanied with a squeezing hug, but there's no guarantee that I'll get back up if I get down."

Bryon's familiar laugh thunders through the air, its buttery bellows causing me to rise from the couch. A prickle of shame heats my cheeks at my sudden need for the hug Hugo'd mentioned, but it's quite simple to drown out such thoughts as I bury my head into Bryon's chest.

With an _oof_ of surprise, Bryon stumbles backwards, recoiling only momentarily before his arms wrap around me. His warmth is nearly heavenly after so long of sitting on the couch and allowing my muscles to cramp up. Squeezing my eyes shut, I allow myself merely to focus on that warmth – screw the fact that he's an ancient dragon, screw the fact that he's emotionally unstable, screw the fact that he's got places to be. I need a hug, and I sure as hell am getting one.

It isn't until a big, fat tear lands on my shoulder that I realize it could be more than a hug for Bryon.

"I'm sorry," he whispers softly, squeezing my tight. "I'll do better. I _will_."

* * *

"And you say that this deal shall not interfere with my leadership?" Carefully, Ariel stirs her tea, too wrapped up in her thoughts to notice its splendid flavor as she again sips from the rim of the cup.

"It shouldn't." Smiling out of the corner of his mouth, Lucius takes another long, luxurious sip of his tea, his throat bobbing revoltingly with each gulp. When he sets the dainty teacup back down on its platter, a stain of black saliva streaks over the lip of the white porcelain. "You make a pretty prize, but you'd put up quite a fight – that marks you as undesirable for anything other than a prize. Honestly, I doubt I'd find much use in you at all, other than the occasional trophy for me to place upon a pedestal when my friends come marching through. But that decision is up to you, darling."

"Don't call me that," Ariel snaps, her stomach pitching with unease.

Lucius fancifully holds the teacup up to the light, inspecting it critically, his lips pulled into a disapproving frown, as if lusting for something stronger than his tea. "Why not, sweetheart? Heard it at the lips of a he-angel before? If you haven't, I bet a lot of your girls can't say the same."

The heavy clink of Ariel's teacup against its saucer silences him. Squeezing her eyes shut as if she's somehow safe behind the barrier of her eyelids, Ariel levels her breath. "I have decided my terms, bastard," she hisses, baring her teeth, slowly peeling her eyes open. "There's no need for you to torment me further."

"Oh, honey." A cloud passes over the sun, bathing Lucius's figures in darkness and casting his face in darker tones, his black tongue dashing along his lower lip and leaving a grey streak. "From now on, I decide when the torment begins and ends."

Glaring venomously at the demon, Ariel sighs, then begins to say: "Lucius, I'll make a deal with you. My conditions are these: you must protect all she-angels from a he-angel's rape, and punish those males that attempt to dirty themselves in such cruel acts severely. This, I believe, you will have no difficulty with."

"I accept those terms. I accept this deal and all of your terms." Cocking his head to one side, Lucius smiles sleazily, recoating his lips in another layer of grey slime. "You know very well what my terms are, so I might as well not repeat them. Do you accept my terms, dear wife of mine?"

Ariel fiddles with her fingers, looking down into her lap. "I suppose…" Ariel sighs softly. "There truly is no other way, is there? Very well. I accept your terms."

"Then it is written in stone." Lucius raises one eyebrow, accompanying it with a toothy grin. Lifting one hand, his fingers slide together, preparing for a simple gesture Ariel fears – and the demon seems to realize this as he slowly curls his hand into position, preparing to snap his fingers.

"I should tell you." The crisp, clean snap rings out through the air. "I lied, wifey poo. You are a very, very large fish to catch, and I won't let your meat go undevoured."

* * *

Maion peels apart the layers of silky cloth protecting the swords so long hidden from the light of day. Holding the metal against her like a mother may a child, she slowly drifts back to the waiting receiver, showing the glossy metal and leather hilts to the one impatiently awaiting in the pillar of light outside the armory. Smiling friendlily yet only receiving a brittle twitch of lips in return, she approaches Bryon and shoves the swords into his arms.

"I think you'd remember these?" She glances questioningly up at the usually quite cheerful man. "They were your mother's wedding gift to Audiat."

"Of course I remember these." Bryon chuckles, a hint of his past shining in his eyes like a ghost. "Audiat wanted so hard to master them, but she doesn't have the balance – she always ended up falling over trying any of the maneuvers Thea tried to teach her. I suppose she gave up?"

"Quite glumly," Maion says, enthused by the glimpse of the Bryon she'd grown accustomed too. "And only after she hit Ariel in the head. We were all so glad when she went back to knives and daggers, we almost threw a party."

"Well, you never know." A true grin spreads over Bryon's face. "She might've invented her own battle form if she'd had them long enough."

Maion snorts. "A battle form to take out your allies, maybe. Anyone standing nearby would have to duck."

"She would make a killer double agent," he amends, eyes twinkling. "These will do nicely; thank you, Maion. I hate to pester you further, but do you, by chance, have any male armor my size?" He gestures shamefully to his gargantuan height.

"No…" Maion bites at her lip. "No, I don't think I do. We have Josiah's armor, but he's a little shrimp of an angel, and he wouldn't like me pawning it off, anyway. I do have another keepsake from Audiat, though – for you. I was going to give it to you immediately, but you looked like you were in a stormy mood."

Bryon sighs, his weary expression returning. "There's a lot going on at the moment, Maion. Why? What did Audiat put aside for me?"

Quickly bustling inside only to bustle back out, Maion hands the small, poorly wrapped package to Bryon. "She wanted to be the one to give it to you herself, but, you know, she's absent at the moment, so… here you are. I do hope you'll enjoy it."

Curiously, Bryon pulls open the top of the package, peering inside. His face splits into a huge grin. "Strange, this box feels heavier than that."

Without another word, he pulls out the poorly sewed patchwork slouchy hat from the box. It's almost like one of those bean-hats Audiat had in vain attempted to introduce to the aerie, except it's long and skinny, shaped like a crow's bill – it looks more like it would belong to an elf than a Nephilim. However, the King seems delighted – he bounces a bell sewn onto the pointed tip of the hat, chuckling at its cheerful tinkle.

Maion smiles as he slips it on, bell tingling all the while. He grins at nothing in particular in silence for a few seconds, evidently contemplating something soothing, before reaching around to his back pocket and emerging with a slouchy hat of his own.

"Here." Handing the strange bean-hat, one with a plush flower sprouting from its forehead, to Maion, he smiles warmly. "I hope she'll like it; I haven't had the time to go shopping or create anything quite as wonderful as this." He shakes his hat back and forth, grinning at the tinkle of the bell.

"I'll put it in the same box –" Maion freezes with her hands over the present package, remaining frozen, uncertain what exactly she glimpses hidden beneath the folds of tissue paper. Initially, she thinks it to be a note, and thinks not that much of it. But when the glossy words turn out to not be written metallic sharpie but _silver_ ink, true, metal, silver, an icy tickle of dread races down her spine. The neat, swooping cursive is as good as any signature in naming the gifter of the unexpected present.

"Bryon." She shoves the box towards him. "What does that mean?"

As he reads the short, sweet message and his face turns slowly from flushed and cheery to white and horrified, Maion recites the message in her mind again, wondering why it seems to sinister to her, why something so simply phrased can put her on edge so.

_Your niece is an idiot to think that I am trustworthy. I pray, for your sake, that you're willing to pay for both her unintelligence, and your own. The eleventh hour is upon us._

_-Lucius_

And why in the name of sanity had the note been atop a book?

* * *

**Oh, I'm so excited. But I've got to keep quiet, keep the surprise…**

**POLL: Bryon's had one of the legs on his rocking chair removed, and he's teetering and tottering in and out of stress. With him this way, grieving and uncertain, it's unlikely he'll be a very appealing pick for most of the Nephilim – so, in the end, did Lucius's cruel way to rip the Band-Aid off aid Ogden more than the Dragon King?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	50. Chapter Forty-Nine

**Chapter Forty Nine**

_Audiat's hands deftly dive in between the chords of a loom. Her brow is crooked and her eyes are narrowed with concentration – she lifts up her lips in a determined scowl as she winds the yarn together, humming low in her throat as she does so. The evening sunlight seems to turn her hair gold, and adds specks of chocolate and pink in her eyes. _

_Bryon sits, watching her like a loyal dog at his master's feet, his bronze eyes sparkling just as bright as hers. The cloak's silky folds drape over him like a blanket. Propped up on one of his arms, he lounges over the bed's crisply made sheets, not stirring or doing anything to distract her – Bryon does nothing but stare, his expression as sweet and soft as honey. He smiles as he does so, the sort of dopey, lovesick smile that makes my heart ache with the pure adorableness of it. _

_Eventually, though, Audiat does catch onto his suspicious behavior – as she lifts her head, the smile fades, and he composes himself slightly, shifting back into that locked-lipped benevolent face I know very well. _

_Curiously, Audiat sets her spool of yarn down in her lap to meet his gaze. _

_"Why are you staring at me?" she asks, smiling slightly. _

_Bryon shrugs coyly with a twinkle in his eyes. _

_Audiat's brow creases. Her lips prick back, and a single hand flies to her mouth. "Do I have something in my teeth?"_

_Bryon throws back his head with laughter. "Yes. But that wasn't what I was staring at."_

_Again, Audiat seems puzzled. After dislodging whatever had been wedged between her teeth, her hands fly up to the buoyant curls bouncing frizzily around her face. "Do I have paint in my hair?"_

_"Right again." Bryon's smile grows only bigger. "But that's still not what I'm staring at – you're not very good at this."_

_"Well, then, what is it?" Audiat huffs, dragging her hands through her hair in an attempt to flatten it. "Did I do something wrong in the pattern? I'm no good at weaving, am I?"_

_"You're absolutely perfect." Bryon's grin grows a tad softer, his gaze reverting back to its dopey glow. "Actually, that's what I'm staring at, Audie. You're absolutely perfect. Right now. The way you are."_

_Audiat looks taken aback, as any woman would be after receiving such a compliment from such a man. Flustered and uncertain, she bows her head into the itchy coils of her loom – catching the light among their soft, dark red feathers, her wings anxiously fidget on her back. It only takes a moment of awkward behavior before she ducks behind the loom entirely, shielding herself from Bryon's loving gaze. _

_"Thanks, thank you, I'm acting odd!" she calls after a second, sticking her head up over the loom like a prairie dog from a hole. "You surprised me is all. I'm not having a heart attack. I thought for sure that I had something on my face. Thought I was going to get teased. By the way, I love you. Don't give me a heart attack, though, alright?"_

_"I almost had a heart attack when I saw you earlier today." Bryon lets his head fall onto the bed and allows his arms to dangle over the side. "Just like this." He sighs heavily. "I don't want today to end."_

_"Or tomorrow to begin," Audiat begins, nodding slightly to herself. _

The transition from one scene to another feels different this time – sharp and bladed, as if I'm a worm on a hook being tossed into an ocean of dreams. I gasp, for a second maintaining the reality around me, the dark room with moonlight staining the twisting dreamcatchers, before I slam back into the sea.

_Lucius is perhaps the first thing I notice in the dream. _

_The evening sun streaks his fluffy white hair with gold. He's crouched over a little damp garden set in a clearing in the middle of the woods, like a fantasy story, with a cottage set atop a hill in the distance, a plume of smoke coiling up from its chimney. _

_Perhaps it's because he's younger than I've ever seen him, more a toddler than a child with puffy cheeks and bright, excited eyes that he's so adorable to me – or perhaps it can be accredited to his alarmingly colorful clothing, opposed to the stark white of his usual outfit. _

_The demon plays in the dirt like a little human child, getting mud up to his shoulders as he trowels into the soil. He keeps squeaking, "Is this deep enough? How about this?" and looking up to a figure draped in shadows at the base of the tree. It takes me a second to recognize a teenage Bryon leisurely flipping through pages of his book, smiling and shaking his head to the little demon. _

_"Is this deep enough?" Lucius crows, looking up with a grin, having somehow received muddy war paint all over his face. _

_"Another scoop or two oughtta do it." Bryon shuts his book and sidles over, the hint of a smile pulling at his lips. "Here, let me –"_

_"No!" Lucius howls. "No, I wanna!"_

_"Alright, alright, don't get all tied up." Smiling cheerfully, Bryon lifts his hands in the universal gesture for surrender. "I'll grab your mother's flowers. Don't dig the hole too deep, or else you'll bury the stem, too."_

_The last comment seems to have sprung from the way Lucius shovels importantly at the dirt, undoubtedly digging too deep for whatever precious flower they're planting in the vegetable garden. But Bryon doesn't truly seem to mind, either, smirking in amusement at the child swamped in dirt. So long as the leaves of a plant stick up, I suppose they'll survive. _

_As Bryon leans down to pick something up, assumedly Lucius's mother's flower, a bronze blur shrieks and flies at him. After initially slamming into his chest, it rapidly coils several times around his neck like a scarf. Grunting in surprise, he stumbles backwards, a hand flying towards the little reptile shivering around his throat. Instantly recognize Belle's quaking form, I become all the more rapt with my dream. _

_"Theobella!" Lucius squeaks, shooting to his feet, eyes shining with realization. Belle whistles in surprised recognition, perching atop Bryon's head and looking down at Lucius. She's even smaller than she is in present day – if she folded up all her long limbs and slender tail, she could fit in a teacup. _

_Panting, another person stumbles into the picture, her eyes wild. I feel myself going cold in my sleep. The person urgently stumbling forward, the one with a hand outstretched towards Belle, is me._

_The impact is slow. It's me, I realize, slamming into Bryon in a desperate attempt to get to Belle. It's me, curling my hands around Belle, and clutching her tight against my chest, like a treasured possession I may never release. It's me. _

_Clad in an old-timey bodice and trousers, aged in my mid-twenties, I look like a female warrior from a bad medieval film. My hair isn't cut short, which would be preferred in a battle type situation, but long and bound in a braid. It seems as if I'm a rather frazzled, panicked peasant from the Dark Ages. Bryon obviously thinks so too as stumbles backwards, brow furrowed critically, looking at me with a judgmental expression. Carefully, he maneuvers himself between Lucius and I._

_"Who the hell –"_

_His head snaps up and away from me, eyes blowing wide with panic. Nostrils flaring, he shoves even Other Me behind him as yet another warped person staggers from the woods – Raffe. _

_Except… it's not quite Raffe. _

_Some gut instinct tells me that in this crazed world, this isn't Raffe, not as I know him. But I don't think it's the Raphael that this version of Bryon knows, either. The crazed gleam in the Other Raffe's eyes frightens me, the mad pull at his lips sends a tingle down my spine. If I'm correct and this is neither of the versions of him we'd grown separately accustomed to, it makes him all the more deadly. _

_It seems Other Me has the same instinct to flee I feel writhing in my stomach. Cradling my arms around Belle, she paces slowly backwards, limbs shaking but gaze remaining steady trained on Raffe._

_Lucius actually does flee – with a screech, he dashes the moment Raffe stumbles through the brambles, yipping like a frightened puppy, screaming out for his mother to run as he scales the cottage-topped hill. _

_Bryon drops into a crouch, as if to engage Other Raffe, but the strange monsterlike version of the angel I know bats him aside as easily as a kitten would a ball of yarn. With a single blow to the stomach, Bryon slams against the tree, groaning as he slides down the bark and curling around his gut. _

_Other Raffe turns to Other Me and Belle. The little dragon shrills in terror, diving into the Other Me's bodice and watching between the lacings as Other Raffe stumbles closer like a zombie. She whistles lamentingly in terror as he draws closer and closer. The Other Me seems frozen – she keeps shaking her head in disbelief, a single tear tracing down her cheek, watching as our angel stumbles forward blindly, his lips peeled back in a lunatic's toothy grin. _

_My heart goes cold. _

_As far as I know, there's only one person that could turn Raffe bat-shit crazy, and, the more I think about it, the more likely it is. _

_At last, Raffe gets within punching distance, and his face contorts into an even crazier expression, his nose wrinkling with glee. And, as he shivers with the thrill of the kill, Belle shrieks with the fury of cornered prey, and flies from the Other Me's bodice. _

_It's almost as she's twirling around Raffe's body in that rapid manner of hers, when she keeps whirling around like a tornado, scaling up his legs and his torso until she reaches his shoulder to perch and squeal and giggle. But instead of going around and around his torso, with an animal's bellow, she dives _through_ him. _

_Her nose digs into the skin of his hips and splits out from his back, narrowly missing the delicate spinal cord erecting him in the tunnel she digs in his flesh. _

_And she continues doing it. _

_Fast, deadly, efficient. Through the belly and out through the ribs, snapping now and then as she goes. Her hard, beaklike nose I'd grown to overlook is like the tip of a needle, helping her to drive through muscle and organs alike, even cleaving ribs and vertebrae apart. Her mane and feathers allow the blood to slide around her, like a sleek knife. _

_A perfect predator. _

_With a final sort of blow, Belle emerges from the center of Raffe's throat, creating a massive puncture wound in his windpipe. She lands gracefully on the ground, not turning back to look at her handiwork, the lifeless body of a angel peppered with puncture wounds the size of half dollars. Spraying blood from her body, shaking like a dog with water matting its fur, she hops over to Other Me, curling around her feet. _

_Other Me stands, mouth agape, at the angel who'd toppled like an old stone statue, still and unmoving. I struggle to understand what'd happened – had this happened? Did Belle do this, in a time when both Lucius and Bryon were young? Is this really me? Really Raffe lying dead on the ground?_

_Only I realize with a bloodcurdling twitch of his fingers that he's not truly dead. _

_Even being punctured in and out the way Belle had mercilessly done is not one of the ways Raffe said could kill an angel. _

_She should've eaten his heart. _

_Other Me turns to flee, but her foot catches in the hole Lucius had dug, and she slams against the wet dirt. _

_Slowly, his mad grin spreading over his face again, Raffe rises, lifting his wings to block out the sun as he takes a staggering step towards Belle and I._

* * *

_I'm sorry, Penryn. _

With a clumsy snort, I jerk awake, recoiling backwards so that my head hits the railing. The moonlight dapples the room through the balcony windows and the panes of stained glass, illuminating the languished twists and turns of the dreamcatchers in the night. Blinking rapidly, I try to make sense of the blue and bronze eyes staring back at me from the other side of the pillow. Paige stirs against me, a reminder to stay quiet – even though she can snore through a thunderstorm, it's difficult for her to go back to sleep should she wake up.

"What?" I hiss softly.

_I'm sorry you got sucked into my nightmare. That's never happened before. It really does screw you up, getting older and maturing, all these new quirks and bodily functions. I hope I don't have to sleep alone from now on – the dark isn't always friendly. _

"Wait." Blinking repeatedly, I scrunch my brow, faint remnants of the terrifying dream whispering in my memory. "Wait. That was your nightmare? That… 'dream' I just had?" I pause. "How?"

_If I knew, it wouldn't have been shared between the two of us. …I will admit, my head was against your cheek – the proximity of cerebral forces and the intensity of my nightmare when compared to your mellow dream might've had something to do with it. _

"Those are awfully big words," I notice, screwing my brow, studying the little dragon curled up beside me on Audiat's pillow, her scales lain gently against her body in a flowing calico cascade. "…And what was up with that dream, anyway? That wasn't… that wasn't… it was _just_ a dream, right? Nothing real about it? …Are you alright, Belle?"

Belle lowers her gaze.

"Belle?"

_I'm scared, Penryn._

"Scared?" I repeat. Then, recalling the maddened grin, I understand suddenly. "Oh. Oh. Belle…" I reach out and brush her mane back with one finger, smiling gently at her. "Belle, sweetie, Raffe'd never hurt you."

Belle begins to quiver, shaking like a child in the shadow of a brute. With elegant twists of feathers, she buries her nose between her wings. _You don't know that. You heard Ogden. He… he could turn back at any time. He's killed thousands of Nephilim – you and I, we'd be no different!_

"He won't lay a hand on you, no matter what mood he's in." Softly, I curl my hand around Belle's body and scoot her closer to me. "Do you know why?"

Belle snorts through her shivers, making the sound staggering and uneven. Her little nostrils flare, and her tail wraps further around her until it's clutched between her two front paws like a security blanket. _Obviously not._

"He loves you." I stroke at her neck and massage her little wings, causing her grip on her tail to lessen. "He'll never admit it, of course, but he does. He loves you too much to ever, ever hurt you. Alright?"

_But, Penryn…_ From between her wings, Belle looks up at me, eyes big and reflective like pools – I see myself there, hazed in either blue or bronze. _What if I hurt him? Or you?_

Again, I find myself confused. "What do you mean?"

_I'm growing, Penryn. Growing up. And I'm scared of that, too. I – I'm not sure what I am. I'm different than them. I can feel it. And, eventually, don't even normal Nephilim start snapping? Biting the hands that feed them? _Belle whines softly, covering her face with a wing. _I don't want to hurt you or Raphael. I'm scared that I'll turn into a monster, Penryn. So scared. _

A monster – like the one diving in and out of Raffe's body, ripping him up from the inside out.

"You're not going to do that," I assure her firmly, laying my hand against her softly bobbing cheek. "Do you know why?"

_Obviously not. _

"Because you _obviously_ love him." I ruffle her mane affectionately. "The same logic applies, baby. You love each other, so you won't do anything to hurt each other. It's the way things work out here in the real world." I sigh softly, careful not to rock Paige's head. "For better or for worse."

* * *

In the corner of my eye, I watch Raffe fidget with his suit as he slips the crisp black jacket over his shoulders, carefully easing his white wings through the slits in the back. The dark color of the fabric accents those gorgeous white feathers in a way that makes my heart constrict.

I pet Paige's hair from her face and kiss her sleeping forehead, bidding her sweet dreams silently – her nap should end before any angels might want to barge into this apartment, and Bay had been instructed to take her away to the human camps in an hour, anyway, and look after her until they're called back.

The humans had relocated for the most part, putting themselves well out of the way of any dragon-horse battle that may occur. Thinking to the hour arising so soon, my stomach squirms – until he'd reached the foot of the mountains separating us from them, Bryon had done a sloppy job fighting the Horse. Apparently, even now, he's only standing his ground by the skin on his teeth. If a single one of his moves is miscalculated or misjudged, the Horse should have every capability to take him out.

And, as I rise and face Raffe again, I see that he, too, is stressing out about it, too. There are too many variables that could go wrong for his liking – Hugo and I are already dressed up in neat little servant costumes, ready to serve Audiat's banquet, but Paige sure as hell isn't, and, as soon as possible, I'm supposed to go help Metatron hound Jane from the library and hide her junkies. What if there's a hole in Audiat's detailed description we have no explanation for? What if Uriel blabs? What if he has photographic evidence of Raffe's wingless state? Audiat had said she'd found and destroyed the evidence of Laylah's procedure, but could she have missed something?

Will he be able to control himself, seeing Uriel again?

Sensing all his answerless questions and knowing the way they tend to torment any one thinker, I walk over beside him and throw my hands around his waist, meeting his eyes through the mirror. Raffe's lips twitch, but he doesn't quit fiddling with his tie.

"You'll do fine," I whisper into his back, peeking over his shoulder.

Raffe's hands drop from his tie to top my own. "I know I'll do fine," he murmurs. "I'm worried that you'll do something stupid. Or maybe Audiat. Hell, maybe even Josiah. Then I'll have to do something stupid to save you, Evil Queen."

"I don't know where I'd be without my Knight in Feathered Armor." I pause for dramatic effect. "Oh, that's right, safe in a human camp, surrounded by people I can trust. I can take care of myself, Raffe. You don't need to worry about me, of all things, when you're there on the front line."

Again, Raffe's lips twitch, but he doesn't seem eager to continue the conversation. "I heard you talking with Belle last night," he says softly, eyes flicking over to where the little dragon bats at a cat toy on the kitchenette's counter. "What was she dreaming about?"

I bury my face into his shoulder blade, unable to decide upon a good, non-stressing reply to that. "…You don't want to know."

He sighs heavily, leaning his head back so that his neck rests on my forehead. "Actually, I do. Thank you for telling her that I… that I'd never hurt her. It's true."

"It's funny, the way you are around that Nephilim," I chuckle, meeting his eyes in the reflection again. "Like I'm seeing a different version of you."

Raffe studies me without emotional response, turning to face me instead of looking at me through the mirror. His eyes are as dead and flat as river stones. "I'd never hurt you, either, Penryn." His hands tighten around mine. "You know that, don't you?"

I nod into his shoulder.

"Good." Gently, he pulls my hands off of him, twirling me around so that I'm looking up into his eyes. Holding me only by my fingers, rubbing his thumbs over my knuckles, Raffe leans his head down to me. "Because if things go well, that's the last time I'm going to be able to tell you that. Your uncle is cutting me loose after this banquet, so to say. Alright?"

Smiling halfheartedly, I shift my hands so that they're holding his. "I would never hurt you. You know that. But…" I hesitate. "Raffe, I've got to go help Metatron with Jane… I can't stay much longer…"

"Of course." Raffe releases my hands with unnatural briskness and turns back to the mirror, straightening his perfectly flat tie for the millionth time. "Don't let that bitch take a chunk out of you."

"Don't let Uriel take a chunk out of you," I call back, rolling my eyes. "Bye, Belle, sweetie."

The dragon whistles and pops in farewell, although she looks confused, as if she's unsure whether or not to follow me, or maybe even why I'm leaving. Glancing in a panic from Raffe to me, she pops questioningly, shifting her weight obsessively on the table.

Waving one last goodbye towards the little Nephilim and then pecking Paige on the forehead once more, I stride quickly out of the room, unable to glance at Raffe.

The moment I enter the hallway, I'm glad that Audiat keeps no makeup that I could've dolled myself up with. Determined to keep my tears from overflowing, I blink forcefully, curling my hands into fists, and set off down the hall.

* * *

Sighing, Metatron snaps shut the last book in the pile, staring reproachfully at the pile yet to be shelved. Setting the book down in its respective bin, Metatron gingerly pulls off her pair of immaculate gloves and sets them in their drawer, unwilling to use them to pull a musty, slobbery dog away from a computer.

Just as she shuts the drawer, a great chorus of wails beacons out from the junkie corner of the library, perhaps indicating another flood of "mental ecstasy" from their master. However, as the ruckus continues, their cries only getting louder and disturbing to the few she-angels calming their nerves with words, Metatron grumbles to herself.

"I'm coming, shut the hell up!" she shouts over their elegiac moans. "This is a library, you swine!"

The blood drains from Metatron's face as she pops her head around the mountains of books and takes her first look at what awaits her beyond the safe boundary of her desk.

Lying on its side, the white devil of a she-wolf pants heavily, its eyes glazed and distant. As if the Devil itself whips her around in its maw like a chew toy, spasms shake her body, sending her paws twitching and kicking. A tail lashes wildly about. Drool flies through the air, its foamy droplets spraying over her circle of mourners.

"What the hell," she whispers, rising up above the desk, looking at the wolf with awe.

"Uh, Metatron?" Amongst the sea of sleek bookshelves and inked adventures, a figure with eyes ringed in red blemishes creeps forwards. Penryn. That'd been the child's name. "What's going on?"

"Interesting question." Metatron briskly approaches the writhing wolf, silently gleeful with each of her spastic twitches. "Give me a second. Obviously, there's something wrong in her brain. Maybe she saw too much. I've heard rumors about people getting anvils dropped on their heads when they learn too much, like some divine punishment – perhaps this is the real-life equivalent of that."

"Stop sounding so happy," Penryn scolds, cautiously circling closer to the wailing she-angels. "You're going to upset them more."

"Well, maybe I'll upset them so much that they'll take their tears elsewhere." Metatron delights in this idea as Penryn kneels before one of the most conscious looking ones.

"Do you know what happened?" Penryn asks gently, with an air of expertise that only comes from prior interactions with madwomen. She rubs the angel's back comfortingly, her fingers roving the taut muscles between her wings. "Could you feel anything with your mind link thing? Can you feel her now?"

Numbly, the she-angel turns, staring at Penryn with unseeing eyes. "There was something else," she rasps. "A presence of some sort. It came in and… suffocated her! It's pressing down on her! Release! Release! She cannot breathe!"

"Unfortunately, she's breathing just fine," Metatron sighs. "That's not the problem."

"Is it like…?" Penryn cocks her head to one side, seeming deeply troubled. "Like she's being suppressed by this… other presence? Her mind has been sedated, like she can't think because of it? Like a buzz in your ears so loud you can't hear anything but the buzz, but in your brain?"

The she-angel's head jerks up. Feeble hands grip at her arm desperately, and her pale, milky eyes blink repeatedly. "Yes!" she gasps. "Yes, yes exactly!"

Something fearfully akin to dread glints in the girl's dark eyes as she turns to Metatron once more. "I think I've seen this before."

_It's similar to my attack, no?_

Metatron jumps, stumbling backwards, her eyes trained on the tiny creature perched on the top of one of the hanging LED lights. Though the creature couldn't possibly be jet black, the shadows turn it so, make its wings more sickles than limbs as they rest above its head, and turn the talons curling over the edges into pure ivory. The only break in the perfect black is the searing gaze of two discolored eyes as they blink slowly, delicately, like an animal afraid to lose sight of prey.

"Yes, actually," Penryn whispers. "It is."

_Strange, isn't it? _Like a coil of brass, the creature twists down to the ground, disappearing in the darkness of bookshelf before Metatron can identify more than the flash of copper scales. _This world is full of surprises. It could be that monster. Or it could not be. We don't know, do we?_

"I guess not." Metatron's eyebrows pinch upwards. "What'll happen to the mutt, then?"

_Hmm. Good question. _More a shadow than an animal, the creature slinks closer. _It remains yet to be seen. I've never been able to hold another thinker down like this for so long. She might suffer permanent brain damage. She's not going to regain any sliver of herself until she's let go, and, meanwhile, it'll all deteriorate. I wonder if she can be controlled?_

But before the creature can continue on its monologue, Jane spasms terrifyingly, her eyes wide open, lunging upwards with an alarmed bark – for a moment, Metatron believes the wolf's torture to be over. But she falls back and slaps the floor like a fish again, groaning softly this time, quivering more than twitching.

_Interesting. _Its glowing eyes swivel from the wolf to Penryn. _I suppose this means you don't have to help get rid of her. What might be merciful is bashing her head in. I suppose this means you can return to Raffe…?_

Within the course of several angelic blinks, the creature's feral fear factor diminishes, allowing it to become almost heavenly – its eyes shine with a candid blend of adoration and hope, and a smile seems to prick at the corners of its lips as it steps into the sunlight with a prance like a kitten's.

"No." Cautiously, Penryn rises to her feet, eyes locked on the little dragon's. "No, I think Raffe needs some time to clear his head. I'm going to… go find Hugo… or something."

_Of course. _From the creature's sides spring two feathered wings, held above her almost like a shield – perhaps the miffed tone blanketed over its words is Metatron's imagination, and perhaps she had been simply imagining the sinister glint in its eyes earlier. _Another time, Penryn. Good luck with Hugo… or something._

* * *

Dinner, though usually populated with many different, varied conversations about the smallest of things, is rather quiet – instead of discussing the oddity of having an ice maker and a water spout attached to a refrigerator, which had been last night's conversation, she-angels speak in hushed voices. Though she's usually the only one in the clique that'd built itself around Hugo and I to be comfortable with silence, Maion is the only one that attempts to spark any conversation at all. A sort of glum aura hangs in the air like tar.

Hugo isn't eating at my side, but he's not staring soundlessly down at his soup like Metatron; he's frantically sketching away on one of his sketchpads, trying to capture the wings around him on paper so that, in a quiet moment, he can work on perfecting his own metal wing creations.

One by one, around the cafeteria, heads lift, as if detecting a sound. I swivel towards the balcony, same as everyone else around me, and shift uncomfortably in my little maid's getup. Had the hour arrived? What is everyone waiting for?

Outside the balcony door, a bird call sounds.

But it's a fake bird call, like there's a boy scout perched just outside the door and hoping to lure a turkey out from its nest.

And, all around me, she-angels begin chirping back, their cries all just as bad. Hugo lifts his heads and glances around with annoyance at the din of bird calls, shoots me a long-suffering look, and then returns to his work.

Silencing all at once to allow the bird caller from outside to cry out again, the she-angels settle on the edges of their seats, their glum faces lighting up like Christmas trees. The bird calls from outside grow louder and louder until suddenly, Audiat burst in through the doors, shrieking like a sparrow.

In one collective rush, all the she-angels frantically chirp back, bolting towards Audiat like swarms of ants to sugar. I laugh with surprise as they wrap her up in a massive group hug, plugging up the entrance to the cafeteria doing so. They bob up and down excitedly. They slap the broads of their wings together in something I can only assume is a high five. They giggle and laugh and grow denser and denser around Audiat until the little she-angel disappears entirely.

"She's so funny," Hugo chuckles to himself. "Heart of the aerie, Bryon used to call her. Looking at that, can you disagree?"

"Okay!" Amongst all the flailing of wings, an adorably tiny pair begins shaking violently. "Okay, enough, girls! We've got a job to do!"

Not caring that she's wearing a dress, Audiat painstakingly flaps above the hug group, hovering over their heads. Her face is split in a huge grin, and, being in her vicinity for the first time, I notice two things: she is indeed fantastically pretty, and that she is much, much smaller than I'd assumed her to be, even after seeing her beside normal sized human beings in dreams. Somehow, it had computed as Bryon height dwarfing her, not as a truly tiny scale herself.

"Ladies, chug down that soup or take it with you, you know what to do!" she crows, grinning beatifically. "Push these tables aside and bring out the banquet furniture! The men will be here any moment, hop to it!"

Hugo nudges me with his elbow. "That's our cue; we've got to go find Emilio in the kitchen. He'll debrief us."

"You want me to hold those drawing?" I whisper to him, already beginning to fold one of his blue prints up along its crease lines.

"Here, I got it," offers a cheerful, melodic voice. Swooping in like a dove, Audiat's pale arms scoop up the remainder of pencils and papers up in her arms. Startled by her sudden appearance, I stumble backwards, watching as she struggles to keep a pen from slipping off of a notebook. Catching the runaway writing utensil with her wing, she grins, cradling her feathers around herself to catch any more escapees.

Grinning from over a page dedicated completely to the use of downy feathers on wings, Audiat walks bow-leggedly towards Hugo. "My little boy," she croons softly, eyes a sweet blend of red and brown. "Oh, you've grown so big. Look at you! Taller than me… It's not that much of a standard, I know, but my! I thought you were going to be my size!"

"Now, why would you think that?" Hugo chuckles, his weary eyes aglow with adoration. "I was never a fat baby, so you don't have that excuse."

"Well, you weren't a fat baby when Bryon was looking out for you," Audiat corrects with a sly grin. "I spoiled you rotten."

"I hope that wasn't a past tense I heard there," Hugo says playfully, pulling on one of her curls.

"I should think not," Audiat giggles, but her cherry eyes turn to me, and widen suddenly. "Oh, my! You're Penryn?"

I nod wordlessly, smiling hesitantly.

She squeals like a child, jogging in place giddily. "You look so much like your grandmother it's shocking! Plus, you have your uncle's ears, no? Hugo, doesn't she have her uncle's ears?"

His eyebrows shoot up, and surprise takes the place of the amorous amusement that'd been consuming his gaze. "You know, you're onto something. Not that you or Bryon have very conspicuous ears, but they're the damn same." His eyebrows scrunch. "Hey, wait a moment, how do you remember what –"

"Oh, no." Audiat ducks her head behind the notebooks. "Here comes Titaniel. That bastard always wants first dibs on seats… form a shield around my wings as we _very carefully_ sneak over to the kitchen."

Hugo grabs my arm and moves me into position, earning himself a furtive slap. Audiat confidently leads the way towards the kitchen as best she can, what with her face being buried into pencils. I wince as she continuously trips over a swivelly chair that chooses to only roll far enough away to allow Audiat the thoughts of freedom before it trips her again, and gentle guide her with her forearm, moving her carefully around the rolly chair of doom.

As Hugo and Audiat both push aside the doors to the kitchen, I take one glance back at the angel Audiat had called Titaniel – and immediately wish I hadn't.

Tall, muscular, and brawny, with skin as black as pitch and wings whiter than white, he's a paragon of a nightmare bringing the little children terror. I can't make myself picture Raffe bringing utmost destruction down upon my people, can't see him standing with an inferno raging around his feet, and, had I not been shown, I would've struggled seeing him with a blade at a Nephilim's throat – but this monster doesn't even seem angelic. Like a machine. Like an animal. I stand, frozen, until his blazing searchlight eyes fix on me. Their color is intensely blue, almost neon bright. As they focus upon me, becoming brutal and suspicious, I turn on heel and bustle through the doors, into Audiat's awaiting embrace.

Gasping with surprise, I feel her little arms nearly snap all my ribs before releasing me. "Stay away from that angel," she whispers to me, eyes wide. "That's the most likely one to become Black Wolf. And you don't wanna be the one that becomes his clockwork beauty."

"And for reasons beyond fairy tales." The shadows seem to extend hands after Emilio after he slips from their shrouding folds, as if reluctant to see him go. "Wrath of God at least feels emotion – wrath, obviously. That one has none. He got a bullet through the head last time the angels descended, and instead of killing him, it gave him brain damage and cut off most of his emotions. Angels have the most bizarre anatomy, don't they?"

"She got the point, Emilio," Audiat tsks, shaking her head. "Do you believe she goes around hooking with every man with wings? Or maybe you were _hoping_. Well? Were you, hot shot?"

I resist giggling at the way Audiat had quite simply removed one of the legs on Emilio's rocking chair – he gapes like a fish out of water for a few seconds, before snapping his jaw shut and sniffing indignantly.

"You know what I meant," he says stiffly, rolling his eyes. "We need to focus. Bryon is not doing so well. He's trying to slow the Horse's advance through the mountains as much as possible, but according to the most recent report I've heard, the humans did a _terrible_ job evacuating the area. His biggest worry isn't the monster snapping for an artery but the humans he's frantic about not squishing."

"Oh, dear." Audiat blinks several times, then turns to Hugo. "Can you alert Raphael about that? Tell him to speed up things?"

Hugo taps his temple. "Done."

"Oh, good." Audiat sighs cheerfully. "Mental things are so easy, aren't they? So, everyone here knows that, as soon as he roars, Raffe's going to deliver a snappy line about Nephilim and then bolt to the door?"

"I do now." Glancing around Hugo, the kitchen staff begin to become interested in the workings of the bizarre cluster of people strung before their doorway – a few clear their throat to get past, but many just stand and watch. Alarmed by this, I study the kitchen, wondering if things will leak out, and if any of these people are spies for Obi like Dee-Dum.

"Don't worry, this place is secure," Hugo assures, seeing my expression. "We'd suffocate these guys if it were any more so. No one can hear through that wall right there. Maybe through the doors, but with the ruckus the she-angels are sweeping up out there? Not likely."

"We're very loud," Audiat giggles. "But we need to focus, just like Emilio reminded us. Emilio, you're combing the countryside yourself, aren't you? Making sure that Ogden doesn't screw this up?"

Emilio smiles with only slight hesitation, but I see the resentful fire light up inside is eyes. "No, I'm making sure everything stays alright inside the aerie."

"Bryon's saving you up for something big," Audiat notices, cocking an eyebrow. "He sure doesn't want you to break your neck just yet, does he? Oh, well, better luck next time! Listen, I've got to go – they're finishing up out there."

Taking a folder of Hugo's work and a pen before she slips through the doors, Audiat waves once, and is gone in a flash. All that remains of her is the lingering scent of cinnamon.

"_So_ good to see her again," Hugo chuckles, squeezing his eyes shut and thrusting back his head, as if liberating himself to enjoy the moment. "But Penryn, we'd better follow her example. You and I both know that Pigeon-Bat's gonna need our support. Besides, do you really want Audiat setting up silverware? No one will be allowed to have even butter knives."

Before agreeing to anything major, I turn to Emilio. "You're going to be alright, right?"

Emilio shoots me an agonized sideways glance. "Why wouldn't it be, Penryn?"

"You seem…" I hesitate, searching for a word to accurately describe his difference in posture, in composure. "…Tense. Are you alright?"

"I want you and Sparky out of this place alive." Emilio's eyes are like a shark's – dead and cold. "However, there are many things that can go wrong, too many for my liking. If something were to happen to either one of you, I would hold myself responsible, and Lord Almighty knows I've got enough grief on my hands. So leave me alone and get to your stations."

"You know, I really wasn't siding with Penryn on this one until you said that." Hugo tilts his head to one side. "You feeling okay?"

Emilio launches into several zesty Spanish curses. "For God's sake, get out there! Is it that difficult for you to figure out? Everyone on edge now that Ogden spun the board game around. Now go!"

Landing a hand on my waist, Emilio shoves us both towards the door, and moodily prowls off. Hugo rolls his eyes, offering his arm out to me.

"Oh, wait." Pausing abruptly, Hugo's coppery gaze follows Emilio's retreating form. "Oh. I know what's got his knickers in a bunch. Today was his sister's birthday. I remember hearing Bryon talking about how it would be difficult for him to get over that – everything going on makes you forget about little things like that."

"Oh, no," I sigh, watching him stride off. "Poor Emilio. I'm worried about him. He's a good guy, really. I think he really does care about us."

"Of course he does. Everyone loves me." Hugo pushes aside the doors and guides me through, which would've been sweet of him if they hadn't closed on my heel. "Oh, wow, look at this. The she-angels don't fuck around."

The old, wooden table centered in the middle of the room replaces all the crappy lunchroom eating areas that'd been there originally. The lighting had been dimmed, instead using candles on the table, on floor-based prongs, and on a few wires hanging from the high ceiling that look like they could shred through feathers. Already, fancy plates and elegant silverware adorns the dark wood. Two other human servants hastily dash around positioning flowers inside red glass vases on the table.

Sulking in the shadows, only the eyes of Titaniel are visible. His gaze seems to linger on me before flicking elsewhere, the dreadful chill his presence creates even worse than Lucius's. I shiver belatedly. If this is Black Wolf… Black Wolf when he was an angel… then I'd rather be in a room with Lucius. The worst Lucius can do it poke and snicker.

"So, remember." Hugo glances my direction. "Quiet professionalism. Curbed expression. Meet gazes only when absolutely necessary. Do as little to draw attention to yourself. Don't spill wine down Josiah's front, he'd probably not appreciate that. Got all that – Wait, shh, here come the bastards."

"Don't shush me," I whisper to him, releasing his and shuffling away until we're at a comfortable distance.

"I shush who I want," Hugo retorts, eyes flashing comically. "_Shh_."

"Hilarious," I murmur back, pulling the little napkin thing I'm supposed to drape over my arm from my belt and placing it where it's supposed to be.

The he-angels all land in one congregated force, their wings folding in perfect synchronization, like a gay dancing unit gone rogue. Heading the movement indoors is Uriel, and quick in his wake are a bunch of other angels I don't recognize, all with the magnificent warrior builds and cascading levels of silky feathers along their massive wings.

My heart coughs as Uriel approaches like the vicious leader of a wolf pack. Fears of recognition had seemed petty earlier when I'd soothed Raffe's nerves – now, the endless cycles of different methods of torture he'd test on me, how this particularly brutal archangel might treat me should he remember my face, whirs through my mind. Admittedly, he doesn't look quite the same without the glittering women flanking him – if anything, their replacements, two burly warriors with fists as big as watermelons, make him seem even more deadly, but in a less suspenseful, more belligerent manner.

Towards the back of the group, Josiah lopes, his hand slung in his pockets. Eyes downcast as if shamed to even be present, to even walk amongst the warriors, he quietly mulls, following each and every whim.

"Oh, hello!" Audiat prances forward with a friendly jiggle of her wings, allowing them to almost float behind her like trails of bubbles. "You came earlier than expected! As I'm sure Titaniel will be able to tell you" – a not so friendly shaft of ice enters her voice – "I didn't poison your platter. His services weren't required. I have to admit, I'm touched you think that I'm such a sly villainess."

Just as Audiat's genuine smile had frozen into ice, Uriel's false one melts into genuine. "It's not so much you that I'm worried about," he apologizes, holding out a hand for her to shake. "There are rumors that these Nephilim can turn into humans." My skin chills as Uriel's eyes sweep towards Hugo and I, lingering delicately, as if issuing a silent threat. "If these beasts are truly out for angel blood, one can never be too careful."

Taking Uriel's hand abruptly and shaking it enthusiastically, Audiat successfully refocuses the archangel's attention. "Oh, silly," she giggles, shaking her head from side to side in a long arch. "You know I'm better at that. Anyway, how would a Nephilim be able to sneak its way under Raphael's nose? They'd have to be hella sneaky." The heartfelt cadence in Audiat's giggle might not be all a façade.

"True." Uriel's eyebrow lifts cockily, a slight flower of frost returning to his expression. "Then again, he doesn't have much of a talent for picking up the scents of rats, either. Forgive me for being a bit wary."

"He is quite trusting, isn't he?" Audiat agrees warmly, eyes sparkling, as if she delights in their hidden game. "Especially with his men. A betrayal from him is absolutely heartbreaking – and when I say that" – she steps slightly closer – "I mean that whenever I see him like that, I want to break a heart."

"Let's save the innuendos for tonight, darling," Uriel chuckles, turning his gaze away from Audiat. "You're getting so confrontational with this..." His voice quiets. "I prefer subtly, dear."

Beside me, Hugo's muscles constrict, his body going as tight as a bow string. Though maybe it's a figment of my imagination, but Josiah's gaze seems to lift from the floor ever so slightly, as if provoked by Uriel's threats more than Audiat herself.

"Oi, Titaniel!" Audiat turns around, grinning broadly. "You never did tell Uriel and his little gang – did I poison their drink? Slip a hex bag inside their napkin? Put a curse on their spoon?"

"No." Launching up from the shadows and walking with an agonizingly slow gait back to Audiat, Titaniel studies her for mere seconds before his attention is drawn elsewhere. Nodding towards the banquet table, he adds, "But you did dish out butter knives instead of anything used for actual cutting."

Audiat huffs with true indignation. "Are you saying that slicing butter doesn't count as _actually cutting_ something? What would you describe it as, then?"

"Audiat, _please_, it's just butter."

A tingle of electricity runs through me, and, slowly, as not to attract any attention from the birds of prey, I turn my eyes to Raffe – so silently, he had landed, that I hadn't even noticed his arrival. His beautiful snowy wings seem to close deliberately, as if he's flaunting them before Uriel, arcanely mocking his enemy's failures. Blue eyes glinting with simmering confidence, he adjusts his suit, pulling it just into place. With a smile that could knock a woman out cold, he approaches with even, natural strides.

"Don't you ever degrade butter," Audiat hisses beneath her breath, bristling like a cat that'd been spritzed with a water bottle.

With a slow roll of his eyes, Raffe glances only once towards the she-angel, before addressing his comrades. Pounding a lean angel on the back between his maroon wings, Raffe grins, seizing his hand and shaking it, prompting an answering smirk from the angel.

"Raffe!" the angel nearly groans. "It's good to see you again. You little devil, you… Had me worried! Thought something had kicked your ass!"

"Don't worry about me," Raffe dismisses, eyes twinkling. "I can kick your ass any day, so if something's kicked mine, you'd better not be worrying but running like hell!"

This causes laughter to rumble around the group, and all the angels' previously cautious if not downright hostile expressions melt into something gregarious and welcoming. Like a mob of adoring fans, they swarm Raffe, all seeming to be trying to be the next one to shake his hand or slap him on the wings.

Uriel refrains from much more than a simple handshake. For mere seconds, Raffe's face loses some of its jolly light, before releasing the archangel's hand and returning to those more interesting to him.

As Josiah creeps warily forward, Raffe lunges and gives him something similar to a noogie with the broad of his white wing. The laughter this provokes is deafening, and it only causes Raffe's smile to grow broader. Even Josiah seems joyful, slamming his heel down on Raffe's foot with a chortle and worming from his grip like a snake.

My heart pangs painfully in my chest at the hidden bittersweet pull at Raffe's lips. And, with a surge of emotion, I understand that this, this right here, is where he belongs – not siding with Nephilim, not covering for a race of monsters, and certainly not by our side. Though I try to smile, it feels fake, a disguise to hide the ache building in my heart.

Ogden was right. Raffe isn't on our side. We may need each other, but he'll never be on the side of the Nephilim.

From the shadows in the corner of the room, a shifting figure catches my eye. Emilio's despising glance towards the bundle of angels makes me realize that we'll never be on his side, either.

* * *

**An observant reader is going to start to notice that it's not so much what Belle says that's ranging from normal – it's what she doesn't.**

**To whom it concerns: Thank you so much for your input; I'm sorry, I'll do my best to remedy it!**

**POLL: The humans – would they be thrilled or terrified or neither to have the big, bronze dragon mauling the Horse demon on their side, knowing what we know about human nature?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	51. Chapter Fifty

**Chapter Fifty**

The swapping of tales begins, starting off with a story about one angel's idiot maneuvers in air that caused something terrible to happen – I'm not sure exactly what, for Audiat cuts them off by herding them towards the table like a mother with little children at a birthday party.

Hugo's gentle nudge jars me from my reverie. "Penryn, we've got to go do waiter stuff. Come on."

The moment the doors slam shut behind us, I whirl to Hugo in dismay. "Are we just going to be serving them drinks while Raffe and his buddies catch up?"

Hugo chuckles. "I warned you, this whole secret agent thing really isn't as fun as it sounds. We might get maybe one interesting tidbit. Nothing will heat up until the ground starts shaking, maybe thirty minutes from now?"

"That'll be when Bryon arrives?" I question, cocking an eyebrow.

"No, that'll be when he first crosses the mountains. He won't actually reach the valley until thirty-five minutes." Leading me towards the piles of appetizers awaiting servers, Hugo shrugs. "He can move really, really fast, but it drains his energy real quick – the only way he can stock up on that energy is by either eating a couple schools of fish whole or with his flowers. We've got –" Hugo fishes a steampunk pocketwatch from his servant's suit – "fifty minutes left until the sun goes over the mountain. So, for fifteen minutes, he'll be fighting on his own, with all the force he's got – already winded, already wounded. To put that into perspective, your little duel with Beliel didn't last even five minutes. This is going to be quite the risky endeavor."

"How are his flowers going to heal him?" Using expertise from the Italian pizza place I worked at throughout most of high school, I balance the trays of gnocchi and bacon treats on the palms of my hands. "I mean, give him energy or whatever."

"Good question." Hugo grins. "When he taps the ground or whatever, he releases the energy of the flowers, right? It's not his energy in them, it's their own – he's just like a hormone in the brain telling the body to do something. However, unlike a hormone, he can totally harness that energy and use it to aid his own. A few centuries ago, he was even practicing, like, wielding the blue shit – had blue smoke stuff billowing out of his eyes. Looked possessed, he did."

"Do you think he'll be able to do that again?" I wonder, tilting my head to one side as I shoulder my way through the doors. "It'd add a nice effect, wouldn't it?"

Hugo shrugs in silence before channeling his focus upon the party unfolding – he stiffens his back and carefully balances the platters on the tips of his fingers, plastering a controlled smile over his face with disciplined ease. I have less ease in achieving utter professionalism, especially as I draw closer to the warriors guffawing as they pull back chairs they could smash to splinters with a single fist if they put their mind to it.

At the head of the table is Raffe, looking comfortable with his position of leadership and his assumption of dominance. He laughs boisterously at something someone further down the table says, his white teeth flashing. At his right side sits Audiat, swinging her legs from the chair that's much too big for her little body, and on his left sits Uriel, looking only the slightest bit vexed about the sitting arrangements.

"So, what the devil have you been up to, Raphael?" wonders one, shaking his head slowly.

Nodding, another adds, "There have been rumors that… you've gone south, Raffe."

A gleam of sharp annoyance shafts through Raffe's gaze. "I've been informed of those rumors, yes. But anyone that knows an inkling of my character knows that such things are preposterous."

"Anyone that knows an inkling of your character knows that you take what you want," negotiates a freckled angel with dotted wings. "An argument can be made at that angle, to be fair. Personally, I'm glad you've still got your sense in order – we're being attacked from all sides, you realize. Even the Seraphim are up in arms! I've never heard of anything like that!"

"And there has been growing unrest in the Nephilim as well." Raffe sighs tersely, propping elbows up on the table and squeezing his eyes shut. His hands clutch around each other. "I regret to announce that a few of the bastards have tailed me here from Africa. They're like rats – they've already repopulated. Civil wars are breaking out all amongst them – and, to update you all, I'm allowing it. Best to have as many of the monsters knock themselves out, eh?"

"Move out of the way, sunshine," growls the angel I lean in front of to set down a dish of scrumptious looking shrimp, plump and quivering. As I retract, my mouth waters slightly. This food looks – and smells – much better than the pancakes served at breakfast. Only the best, I suppose, for the angelic overlords.

"Where _are_ all of them coming from, Raphael?" Uriel cocks his head to one side, as if legitimately curious. "And what are the bumps in the night we've all been hearing?"

"Africa." The moment Hugo finishes pouring Raffe's drink, Raffe tips it back, his water disappearing in a single gulp. Tapping Hugo's arm, he orders softly, "No water next time" before continuing with his tale. "You'd think that you knuckleheads would actually listen to what I've tried to drill into your heads – _Daughters of Men are dangerous_."

I try to keep my hands from shaking. A cheese cube in the dish I set on the table topples from its perfect pyramid. The glares of the he-angels scald my skin.

"I was over there trying to clean up their massive slip-up for the longest time, provoking Nephilim as I did so. Drilled myself into their heads as a sort of devil. White wings and blue eyes, that's what they fear. In other words, the only ones they'd run from with their tails tucked would be Titaniel and I."

Breaking the tense silent eagerly, the angels chorus their amusement. Laughter echoes around the table, and they swivel to Titaniel expectantly before realizing that this is indeed Titaniel, and the only sort of response they'd receive would be a twitch of lips, if that.

"But that all changed when the Horse was set loose." His expression blackens. "Just a little bit." Broodingly, Raffe glares down at the remnants of water trickling down the sides of his glass. "My friends, I have never seen a creature look more relieved to have one of those hellbeasts on the loose than those Nephilim. After it became clear that I was hurting the aeries with the Horse rather than helping them, I went my separate path. Have any of you heard anything from them recently?"

As if Raffe had flipped a switch, the faces of the angels go ashen and grim. Most find sudden interest in their empty plates, or shovel shrimp and meatballs into their mouths to find a reason not to speak.

"They've been oddly silent for us, too," Audiat pipes up, wrapping herself in her little wings. "We wanted to check with you before we dispatched any parties to scan the area."

"I wouldn't," Raffe sighs. "If the worst has come to happen, then it's best we stay as far away from their breeding grounds until we've got a good grip on our numbers and theirs. A frail little party of a dozen men wouldn't dent their numbers. Might fatten them up, though."

An uneasy stir passes through the room. Distrustful of the silence, I warily turn my back on the banquet table for only seconds to pick up my next platter of appetizers from a kitchen servant at the doors.

"What if the worst hasn't come to happen?" Josiah questions in a quiet, hopeful voice.

"They'll find a way to contact us, ask for help." Raffe shrugs. "At this point, it's nothing more than a waiting game – but we should consider our losses as if worst has happened. The angelic slave quarters were primarily focused there and, because of their vulnerability, were easy targets. It's safe to say such areas are gone."

"Oh, no," Audiat whispers mournfully, curling up further in on herself, her eyes swimming with memories.

"Oh, yes." Shaking his head, Raffe sets his glass down. "You see all the fun you've been missing on Earth? But oh well – what is to be done? We can only prepare for the future." He leans forward. "And I want to teach each and every one of you how to kill a Nephilim."

Audiat's alarm slices through her sorrow like a dagger, but even that does not last very long.

Starting as a low, distant rumble that causes the plates to shiver and quake, a deep, grating noise begins to grow on the horizon of my hearing. The angels all clench up and begin clutching their ears, their temples, as the noise steadily increases in both volume and pitch, growing higher and louder and throatier until I'm completely certain of its origin. Raffe's cup falls off the table and shatters, the glass shards dancing over the floor. An angel wails, thrusting back his head so far that his chair topples backwards.

It's the sound of a massive, earthshaking roar.

When at last the dreadful noises ceases, I sit there shivering nearly as bad as Audiat, blinking, utterly dumbstruck. Angels moan and groan, holding their ears and cradling their heads, trying to comfort their sensitive hearing as best possible. Raffe merely shakes his head, clears his throat, and stands up.

"It seems we're out of time already." Calmly, he casts aside his black suit jacket, throwing it over the back of his chair. "And on such a dramatic note, too. I'd say it'd be best if you bumbling lot stay behind on this one – the last thing we need is another set of deaths."

"What was that?" Josiah coughs, blinking his eyes miserably through hacks.

"A Nephilim's roar." Audiat's expression of childish wonder leaves me no doubt as to which Nephilim it belongs to.

Hugo bumps my shoulder with his own, his coppery opalescent eyes saturated with concern. Eyebrows doing a little dance, he mouths, "You okay?"

I grin weakly, mouthing back, "Yeah, and you?"

With a shrug and a smile, Hugo chuckles and mouths, "When am I ever okay?"

"There's no way that's a Nephilim," Uriel whispers, his eyes blown wide with incredulity. "No. No way in hell."

"You're not wrong." Raffe barely even glances towards Uriel as he draws Pooky Bear, brandishing her brilliant gleaming length proudly, perhaps to dash any existing doubts about his allegiance to the aeries. "After all, it could be the Horse. We don't know for sure. But that didn't really sound like whinny to me – much more guttural."

"Let's go find out what that was." Looking disturbed with his sensitivity, Titaniel rises, shaking his head to clear it. "The roof would have an excellent vantage point – we're too low to the ground here."

"They're like puppies," Hugo whispers, utterly bemused as they clump around Titaniel. "I thought that my boyfriend was clingy. Look at that! Following the only one with an idea! They're literally a bunch of puppies!"

"Hush, you two," Emilio whispers, materializing behind us. His almond-shaped eyes seem considerably calmer than they'd been earlier – perhaps it's not the actual thick of things that worries him, but the apprehension of it. "Come on. I'm carrying you two heavyweights up the stairs – it's a lot of distance, and I'd like to arrive in time to see the show. Let's go."

"How are you…" I bite my lip to silence myself, thinking better of challenging Emilio's abilities.

Audiat furtively waves farewell our direction, flashing a uneasy smile, before disappearing in the massive spiral of he-angels upwards. To my immense surprise, Emilio returns the smile, as if lending a comforting hand to her – who knows? Maybe she reminds him of some distant, dead relative, too.

The stairwell is already dammed with people trying to stagger down to the bottom floor – when combined with the kitchen frantically trying to escape their posts, it's absolute chaos. Some are shouting about monsters while others scream about earthquakes. No one seems to know where to go or what to do.

"Calm down!" Emilio shouts curtly when presented with the mess, his brow furrowing. "For the love of God! I can't hear myself think!"

For the most part, people quiet, though it's primarily out of shock or indignation. With either anger or tears in their eyes, they turn to Emilio, and I doubt they find as much relief in his expression as Audiat had.

"Listen to me." Emilio's voice is quiet and stern. "There is something very awful going on outside – not an earthquake or Godzilla, though the latter is a better guess. Whatever you do, don't go outside, or try to leave this building. There is a wine cellar beneath the kitchen tiles – no one remembers it, I just uncovered it myself. Find your loved ones and take cover there until these vibrations settle down. And please, _please_, quit your wailing."

Without another word to the stunned people, Emilio whirls about in a flash of feathers, hooking an arm around my torso and one around Hugo's. First softly inquiring about our comfort, then lifting his slender white wings to repel any humans from his necessary lift-off space, he takes off without another hitch.

To be honest, I'd never truly seen his lean wings as being all that strong – they'd seemed sort of weak, honestly, especially in comparison to Raffe's. And it does seem that he works with more difficulty than Raffe, or Bay, but I can't say I find too much of a difference, considering he's heaving both our weights up.

As we grow higher and higher along the staircases, more and more she-angels clog the path, too. On occasion, wings snag or legs tangle in the stream of feathers. Courteously, Emilio deals with them, treating it as more his fault than theirs – then again, it might be his fault. I don't know any of the etiquettes of flying.

When at last we reach the top floor, Emilio falls to the floor more than he does land. Unfastening his arms from around us and clearing his throat, he squares his shoulders and calms his deep breathing unnaturally quickly. As I glance around worriedly, listening to another softer roar as it echoes down the hall, he catches his breath and composes himself.

"We're on the top floor," Emilio murmurs, his voice not even remotely winded, something that surprises me immensely.

"Really?" Sarcasm dripping from his tone, Hugo shoots the Spaniard an incredulous glance. "I couldn't tell. C'mon, Pablo. Vamanos."

Emilio doesn't bother to respond, tailing Hugo with powerful strides, as if he's abruptly rested and fresh. After a few long strokes, he does pause, however, and glance back at me, as if wondering why I don't move to follow Hugo.

It takes me a second fixed onto his brown eyes to realize that I'm frozen. Blushing, I jar myself from my thoughts and hastily bustle forward. Emilio doesn't begin to move until I'm several paces ahead of him, and even then he matches my pace, all too careful not to encroach on my space.

"This could all go very wrong," he murmurs, half to himself. "I should tell you, Penryn, that if it does, I'm under strict orders to get you and Audiat out of here. …I tend to become callus under pressure. Just as a forewarning, in case any disaster should occur."

"How risky is it?" I wonder, glancing worriedly towards him as Hugo wrestles with the knob on Ariel's door. "I mean, I heard that he wasn't in so good shape, but…"

"I believe that Bryon can take down the Horse." Emilio's lips twitch reassuringly. "The problem is, I don't know if he believes it himself. Not that I think he should be reckless, but he could do with a little more confidence in his current state. There are too many problems he has to deal with."

"He'll do it," Hugo grunts, fishing a lock-picking tool from one of his pockets. "If anything, we'll get Audiat to go out to him, thrust her in some mortal danger. Even though he's the monster princes are saving maidens from, he'd definitely get motivated for beating up the prince's steed." The knob twists, the lock clicking with an almost miffed beat. "_Thank you_. She said she'd leave that unlocked. Come on, you two. Let's go see Bryon beat up a pony."

My first thought about the Horse of Conquest, Pestilence, and Victory is that it looks nothing like a horse.

For the time being, it's the only one in view – in the distance, I can see the stirring of some other massive creature, but it slinks behind the crests of the mountains, barely visible aside from the bright flash of bronze. Owning the spotlight, it whinnies piercing the sky, the Horse bares lipless gums with teeth like long, barbed needles jutting haggardly out from its mouth. Above it flare grotesquely snot-crusted nostrils.

Seemingly stretched just barely over its skeleton, its bald skin slathered with ugly oozing sores, bursting boils, pulsing warts, and other disgusting features I decide not to identify. Bony hindquarters and bulging knees further furnish its disgusting figure. No pointy ears top its head, and, instead of a mane and tail, rivers of goop strongly resembling a foul mixture of mucus and bile dribble in chunks down its neck, sliding slowly down its rump. Disproportionately large hooves club its legs, and sunken, blue human eyes dart around madly, encrusted with circles of yellow flakes.

"Damn, that thing is nasty," Hugo whistles, almost sounding impressed. "What do you think, Emilio? Would it be able to take down the Triangle?"

"You mean this skyscraper?" Emilio pauses, as if computing it. "Most definitely. It's not as tall, but those hooves could probably pack a mean punch."

"Is it contagious?" I wonder worriedly, praying to some God above that I won't wake up tomorrow morning looking like that. "The Horse, I mean?"

"Only its spit." Hugo shrugs. "Nasty venom, but honestly, no one's going to escape that bristly mouth alive to get infected by it. I suppose it could drool all over you, but I like to believe the person'd have the sense to run."

"People can be stupid." My breath suddenly jars as the bronze shimmer grows a thousand times bright. "Holy – holy shit, is that Bryon?"

"Bigger than this skyscraper." Emilio smiles grimly. "He'd be able to take it out with a lash of his tail. Unfortunately, though, he's going to get too big any day now – his bones are going to start to shatter with the weight he has. Even angel bones can take so much pressure on them, and angel muscles can only be so light."

"Shh, we're watching Bryon," Hugo shushes. "You can bore us to death when the battle is finished."

It's difficult to connect my uncle's benevolent smile to the dragon's malicious sneer as it crawls over the mountain, his scales like tiger's eye with a bronze iridescence instead of gold. The dusk casts his horns in more rosy tones, and sharpens the color of his ivory teeth. Amidst it all, his metallic eyes glow, perhaps the most terrifying thing of it all.

Around his feet, the mountain ridge crumbles into devastating landslides. Rocks tumble down its face like tears. A long tail like a snake wraps around the mountain's base, as if for support or perhaps possession. Watching the slender whip of flesh constrict, smashing trees against the earth, I pray that all the humans had evacuated that particular area.

Bryon's head bobs up and down, almost as if he's nodding, or perhaps taunting the beast. A low, guttural rumbling echoes around the valley, first soft and dancing on the very edges of my hearing, then growing louder and louder into a deafening chuckle. A strange, reptilian smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

Rearing up with two of its heavy hooves slashing the air, the Horse shrieks a challenge.

In response, Bryon falls into a crouch and shakes the ground again with a roar. Spit flies from his pink, quivering maw, catching the evening sunbeams like crystals.

"How does he do that?" I whisper in awe as it at last quiets down, the air around me lessening from its powerful gusts.

"Sets his vocal chords against the ground, and focuses more on getting a vibration than actual sound until the very end." Hugo smiles slyly. "As you can see, it's very intimidating. Nobody wants to go up against a predator that can make the Earth itself shake in fear."

Almost as if prompted by Hugo's words, Bryon takes the first step off of the mountain, encroaching on the Horse's territory. His feet pound into the farmlands, leaving massive craters with their weight. The lash of his sinuous tail across the corn makes delicately beautiful designs, like twisted modern art.

Growling meets threatening nickers in a thunderclap of terrifying cacophony. Spiders of ice dance up and down my arms, causing armadas of goose-bumps to break out across my skin. Slowly, with a ducked head moving from side to side like a cobra's, Bryon begins to circle the Horse, as if trying to place himself between the aerie and its clobbering hooves.

Phlegm sails through the air, silhouetted by the sleepy sun, as the Horse thrusts back its head, screeing a bloodcurdling promise. As it rears and its filmy blue eyes roll wildly in its sockets, I can see a punisher of iniquities, of sin, before me, and, even though acres separate us, the Horse's dead, cold gaze sends a shiver through me.

Instead of dodging or scampering back like any logical creature would've done as it saw the menacing undersides of the Horse's heavy hooves, Bryon blares out a short bellow, and rears up as well – and, as he does so, roaring bloodthirstily, his open mouth catches one of the Horse's limbs and slams down on it like the iron jaws of a bear trap.

Thrown off balance as Bryon continues to shoot up and up with its leg in his jaws, the Horse squeals, falling backwards. It lands with a heavy thud onto its back, and, with the momentum of gravity, had effectively ripped its limb from Bryon's mouth. Though ribbons of red stream from the slashes in its leg, now freed, the Horse brays with triumph, and slams its two back hooves into Bryon's exposed underside.

With a bellow of pain, Bryon stumbles backwards, wasting no time getting all four paws back on the ground to steady himself – though he doesn't fall, not like he'd tipped the Horse backwards, two circles of blood seep from where the sharp hooves had collided with his soft belly. Warily, he edges backwards, heavy dollops of blood staining wheat red.

"Uh oh," murmurs Hugo. "That's really not good. He should've snapped off that Horse's leg when he had the chance."

"It's limping," I announce, watching the Horse retreat back to a safe distance. "But I doubt it'll make that mistake again."

"Bryon won't show his belly again, either," Emilio points out calmly. "Neither are mortal injuries. Both were just part of the opening act."

First, the Horse attempts to slam into Bryon with all its might like a bull rather than a pony, lowering its head as it charges, shrieking defiance as it does so. Its hooves thunder over the ground in a terrifying rhythm, and those wicked blue eyes narrow with bloodlust.

Seeing the Horse's stampede, Bryon sinks his claws into the earth and lowers his head. The monster collides with Bryon's bony skull and horns with a crack louder than thunder, the momentum in the brutal charge causing Bryon's hind legs to buckle. Seeing its failure to knock him off his feet, the Horse again takes action.

Leaning forward, it knocks its head into Bryon's shoulder with a solid smack that has my ears ringing – I cup a hand to my mouth at the sound of it. His front feet lift off the ground from the force behind the blow, and his buckled legs extend. With a short outburst of pain, Bryon flies backwards and crashes into the foothill of a mountain. The boulders he'd dislodged as he'd stood at its ridge melodramatically crash around him, some drawing blood as they slam into his face, his eyes, his mouth. Puffs of dust spiral into the air.

"Bryon's lighter than the Horse because of the same angel muscles that make him more mobile," Hugo explains breathlessly, eyes wide and worried. "The Horse is also much stronger than him. Hopefully, Bryon discovers that he was actually meant to be an agile ballerina soon."

Bryon may not be a ballerina, but, as he rises, shedding boulders from his hide and shaking blood off as if it were water, I can truly see the warrior he really is. My uncle is every bit as tough as Raffe, though maybe, I realize with a small smile, a tad bit bigger. Baring his teeth, he again approaches the Horse, regardless of the beating he'd just taken.

The Horse acts suddenly with its new attack, differing from the brute force of the last one. Leaping forward, it attempts to bury its fangs into the back of Bryon's neck, but encounters an unexpected difficulty: scales.

Upon first attempt, its teeth merely slide over the slick mane protecting the more vulnerable points along his neck – but then, so rapidly that Bryon doesn't have time to react, its equine jaw swings open and snaps shut again in an area not guarded by the mane's bizarre scales, and Bryon roars in agony. Blood wells up around the needle-teeth, staining the yellow bone crimson.

Snarling angrily, Bryon twists his head around and impales the Horse's neck in return, goring one horn through its windpipe. With a strangled cry of pain, the Horse releases Bryon's nape and jerks backward, unknowingly causing itself more pain by wrenching that horn out a way it hadn't come in.

The Horse coughs up blood while Bryon tries to remain standing with the lack of his. In the little moment of rest, Emilio's voice comes, like a comforting dove.

"There's no version of this where the Horse wins," he informs gently. "None at all. Bryon is easily the more wounded of the two and obviously not as mighty as the Horse, but he is much, much smarter, an evolutionary advantage. And, if we do delve further into the physical side of things, we've got to remember that hooves can only kick and smack – his paws can claw and grab and bite and slash and climb."

Again, the creatures crash together, as if some unspoken order had been given. This time, their fanged mouths grapple together, teeth clashing against one another, as if they each attempt to deliver a deadly kiss that can never be given. Bryon's tail lashes angrily behind him. In its haste to come out on top with gravity's preference, the Horse is the one that rears, resting its heavy hooves on Bryon's shoulders as its head bucks upwards, gaining the higher ground.

My uncle's eyes glow murderously.

Bryon's tail sweeps the fields, the low whistling sound heard even at our distance. He lifts from the wheat at the last possible second, pounding the muscled band into the Horse's side. Thousands of pounds of flesh slam into the Horse in the form of a thick whip of a tail. With a startled shriek, the Horse topples like a domino, its hooves dragging Bryon down on top of it.

One of Bryon's paws plants next to the Horse's head in an effort to better balance himself.

Bryon's neck coils like a snake preparing to bite. His lips curl back into a snarl, a reptilian hiss echoing through the valley and causing my hairs to stand on end. The Horse's wide eyes seem to grow even wider. And then, fast as a bolt of bronze lightning, he strikes.

At the last possible second, the Horse moves its head, causing Bryon's strike to slam into the earth with enough force to shake the skyscraper we're in. Nervously, I clutch Emilio's arm, trusting him to get us out of here should this place collapse.

Relatively unbothered by the failure, Bryon shakes his nose viciously from side to side and growls irritably. His muzzle folds elegantly into a pissed-off snarl, each of those magnificent scales holding the evening light on their backs. Something about the furious look in his eyes tells me that the Horse isn't going to last long enough for the sun to set and the moon to rise.

Bryon plants a single paw on the Horse's chest, endangering himself to slashes from its injured hoof – but, unbeknownst to all, he'd purposefully cut a certain tendon in his opening attack, one that made this maneuver simply _impossible_ for the Horse to pull off because of its loss.

The Horse's shrill cry of terror echoes over the valley as Bryon's neck coils again. He wastes no time building anxiety, cares not to live the moment over in his mind's eye, denies his victim its proper brooding time – releasing the tension like firing an arrow, Bryon's jaws shoot forward.

Another panicked whinny echoes about.

The Horse goes still at another sound, this of ripping flesh.

With that paw placed firmly on the Horse's chest and his own daggerlike teeth sliced into its neck, Bryon rips upwards, tearing its head from its body.

Emilio bows his head and, with a single hand, marks himself with the sign of the cross as Bryon, trembling with effort, tips back his head as the moon first crests over the hills and roars powerfully, an exclamation of might for all to hear.

The dragon's roar blasts over the fields, a war cry to the heavens. His bronze eyes blaze with triumph, and his tail whips about in a victorious, twisting dance, as if to ward off any other predators.

Towards the end of its magnificent bellow, however, the dragon falters, one of his front legs buckling.

A tumultuous cheer rings out from above us, causing me to flinch, unprepared for the sudden angelic chorus that sits on the roof. Spooking me, a pair of snowy white wings sail over my head – for whatever reason, the rest of the he-angels don't follow Raffe, perhaps because of some excuse Audiat had cooked up.

Bryon's gone and saved the day, killing the Horse, and now, off flies Raffe, ready to slay the dragon like a valiant knight in folk tales.

"Knew he could do it," Hugo murmurs, beaming out at the dragon crouched in exhaustion, puffing out breaths to prepare himself for the next trial. "Now let's see if he and Raffe are a good acting pair…"

"They've pretended to tolerate each other for over a month," Emilio chuckles. "I think our question is more or less whether or not they'll be able to keep from tearing into each other."

Raffe's wings catch the moonlight in a way that none others can – as if infused with platinum, they shimmer and shine. If I were only shown a single of his white feathers, I fancy that I'd be able to recognize it. He seems to flaunt them midair, spiraling unnecessarily as he approaches Bryon – and the exasperatedly lethargic roll of the dragon's bronze eye tells me that Bryon knows it, too.

As Raffe draws closer, however, Bryon's manner changes entirely, as if reverting back to primal instincts and primitive roles in Mother Nature's great design. First, his bronze eyes swing menacingly to Raffe, held wide and impassively fierce like a wild animal, a movement quickly followed by the snake of his head. Instead of challenging Raffe, like the Bryon I know would've, he reacts in a way a creature at the top of the food chain never would – cringing against the ground and hissing, he slowly retreats, stepping backwards over the corpse of the Horse.

Raffe's white wings flash, absolutely dwarfed in comparison to Bryon. But, almost comically, the Nephilim King continues to retreat, hissing as he does so.

The bristles of his mane stand on end, crowning his head in an aggressive halo, so unlike the holy one which usually encompasses him it seems fundamentally wrong. His tail writhes over the ground, but seems to graze the treetops behind him more than anything, as if warning any straggling humans to take cover.

As Bryon's tail crests over the mountain ridges, Raffe spirals up above him and dives downwards. Hissing in something painfully akin to amusement, Bryon yanks his neck back to avoid the blow – the absolute childish glee in his eyes as he watches Raffe plummet down aimlessly isn't something anyone would've noticed had they not known him personally.

Backing up onto the edge of the mountain, Bryon rears up in a maneuver that doesn't quite seem legitimate, lacking the strong expertise his past actions. Only his two hind legs keep him upright on the mountain crumbling beneath his feet, and it seems suspiciously easy for him to fall over backwards.

"This should work out without a cinch." Hugo reclines over the balcony's railing, smiling confidently. "We're going to say that sometimes, powerful Nephilim bodies turn into things like flowers or whatever to explain the lack of a body after Pigeon-Bat slits Bryon's throat and tips him off of the mountain."

"Raphael does what?" Emilio trumpets, as alarmed by the news as I am.

"Don't worry, he won't cut the jugular or anything like that." With a flash of his coppery eyes, Hugo grins back at us, his hair quivering in the slight breeze. "Watch and find out, young Padawan."

I lift my gaze from Hugo just in time to see Raffe's wings flash upwards, his sword presumably braced in his hands as he glides upwards from Bryon's soft lower belly all the way up to his chin without resistance. A red line in Bryon's soft scales appears in his wake.

Blood fountains from the near perfect slash mark as Raffe pulls away, flapping high into the sky to escape Bryon's few snaps of vengeance through roars of miserable agony. The sheer amount of blood and my unfamiliarity with Bryon's dragon body makes it difficult for me to decipher just how fatal those slices are – which is more or less the point, I suppose, but the ugly wounds don't look all that promising.

Bryon swats futilely at Raffe a few times, forcing the angel into a few nose dives. Raffe dances in the air, more a white streak than anything else – I doubt Bryon could catch that archangel if he tried, especially with how much blood he's losing.

A sense of a finale settles in the pit of my stomach as Bryon roars weakly, edging further backwards, putting himself at more of a risk – my heart clenches, watching more and more red liquid spill over the mountain like lava. It won't be difficult to shove Bryon over at all.

Slicing against one of Bryon's flailing paws, Raffe bursts through the layer of protection, sailing upwards above Bryon's head where he can't reach. There he hangs for a few precious seconds, suspended like Gabriel in a Christmas play, his wings two graceful arches around his body like a magnificent halo and his sword braced between two hands.

Bryon's eyes splay open to an unnatural degree and true, primal fear glimmers in his gaze, caught by the moon's light and cast around for the entire world to see.

Raffe slices downwards deeper into Bryon's throat, just beneath the jaw bones.

The raw power in the unstaged bellow of pain washes over me in great waves of gales. My pathetic maid's skirt flaps stiffly in the wind. I cross my arms over my face and clutch at my ears, just barely able to see Raffe through my arms frantically trying to upright himself as he soars backwards on turbulent air currents.

As Bryon slowly keels backwards, his tail uncurling from around the base of the mountain, his roar softens into a low, rumbling groan, quickly overshadowed by the mighty slam of his massive body against the earth. Those shining bronze scales disappear beneath the crest of the mountain, lost from all our eyes as the tail goes slack.

Dust and other debris floats benignly into the air, taking the shape of a massive mushroom as the sound of his impact ceases.

"Is he okay?" I whisper, searching for a blue flower amongst the dust. "I'm not seeing any –"

"There's one," comforts Emilio, pointing towards the limp tail twined around the mountain. "And there's another."

In a languished wave, the flowers spread over the mountains, slowly undulating up and down the hills in waves of unearthly blue, but they don't draw any closer than the cultivated fields, perhaps because there are none of the plants for the flowers to bloom on. Never before have I seen it in such a godly perspective – in fact, I've seen it only once, and that view doesn't even begin to summarize this. The flowers stretch as far as the eye can see, and begin to slowly twirl upwards in beautiful spires, like little hands reaching for the stars, souls fleeing from this earth to claim Heaven as their own. As slowly and gracefully as the flowers twirl upwards, it occurs to me what I'd just witnessed.

We've succeeded without a hitch.

Bryon is coming home to Audiat.

Everything will be alright.

Finally, finally, _finally_, everything will be alright.

* * *

"Oh, no."

Pausing his game, Luther glances inquisitively up at his brother, startled to hear the demonic child utter a word. He stands, back to Luther, holding up a picture of a creature with two-colored eyes springing from the belly of a dead woman, like some gruesome depiction of a person giving birth. Not yet bothering to question Lucius, Luther watches as his brother pulls out another picture – this one of a terrible beast with only one vivid blue eye burning, and a fraction written with sharpie in Lucius's swirly handwriting beneath it – _five-eighths_.

Luther's crusted heart splutters in his chest. _Five-eighths._ Lucius is only three-eighths human, a statistic shared by a suspiciously small few – had he discovered another with the unique number? That creature on the third picture, the one looking as if it's bursting out of another body, like a reptile shedding its skin?

"Lucius?" he inquires softly, this a thousand times more intriguing than the bland storyline of his video game. "What's going on?"

"We need to get to the she-aerie as soon as possible." And, as if he doesn't realize that Luther is watching him flick through them, he selects a fourth picture and glances ever so briefly at it – a picture of a dragon with its head held low and its neck encircled with a living serpent, like a shackle.

He tucks the pictures into is suit pocket without another word.

* * *

Throughout the entire flight down the center of the triangular aerie, the angels cheer Raffe on, roaring with approval. The grins spread across their faces aren't nearly as wide as the one stretching Raffe's lips. She-angels clap and whistle, waving their wings towards them in gestures of respect and appraisal as the warriors descend, quite a few screaming out Raffe's name with gratitude. Pure bliss is all I see in Raffe's eyes, as beautiful as any glowing blue flower.

They hit the balcony to the cafeteria seconds before Audiat does, only half a step ahead of us – luckily, so much testosterone mucks up the air that they don't bother to even glance back at Audie's two human companions.

In a roaring, cheering, crowd, the angels flood the cafeteria, causing Emilio to hastily dance back into the kitchen and a few other servants to trickle from their path. Only one little guest remains, though everybody, even me, doesn't notice them in the rush of the moment.

Raffe, face aglow, accepts the pounds on the back and the zesty compliments with a grin. Slowly, he guides the party back towards the table. With each passing minute, he receives more appreciation and more praise from his fellows. Raffe's expression is almost wistful.

Basking in the moment for only a few minutes longer, he seems to reach a decision, and, with a hiss like that of a serpent, draws Pooky Bear – the victorious blade – and lifts her upwards

That, in itself, demands attention, but not all of the warriors quiet at the sight of her steely hlow, a few too absorbed in their bloodthirsty daydreams to pay any heed to Raffe.

The clash of Pooky Bear against the metal dome of a platter quickly jars them rudely from their conversations – and jars another even more so from slumber.

My heart drops to my feet at the sound of a familiar startled whistle.

The silence that falls over the angels suddenly isn't solely because of Raffe's command.

All eyes land on the little dragon halfway hidden beneath the suit jacket Raffe had left behind hanging on the back of his chair. She stretches with a great, yawn – and, with a jolt halfway between fear and mother's pride, I see that she's grown a few pearly white teeth in her previously gummy mouth. With a soft purr, she peeks her head from the collar of Raffe's suit, mismatched eyes bright and curious, dispelling any last suspicions as to the creature that'd dare sleep in a time like this.

"Oh, God," Hugo whispers in horror. "That stupid, stupid lizard…"

My lips move, but I can't hear anything at all. "_Belle_."

"It's one of the monsters!" cries one of the angels as Belle crawls sleepily out from under the suit, perching atop it and grooming herself with long licks of her slender tongue.

"No," I whisper, my voice lighter than a cloud.

"It was waiting to pounce on you!" realizes another, horror lining his voice. "If you hadn't woken it up…"

"No!" I repeat, only a feather louder.

"He'd be dead!" roars another angel.

"Monster," Titaniel murmurs bitterly.

"Fiend!" howls one.

"Kill it now!" snarls one of Uriel's bodyguards. "Tear off its head!"

"Slowly!" orders another. "Torture it for our brothers in Africa! Make it feel their pain!"

Despite the foul words aimed towards Belle, she doesn't do any more than calmly lift her head and observe them curiously, as if wondering what they could possibly want. On the contrary, she doesn't seem to have much to fear – their threats aren't fulfilled as, with each one, they clump tighter and tighter together, inching backwards, as if expecting her to spring into a massive size instantaneously. In fact, she seems rather bemused with their presence, making a popping noise and watching them all leap backwards with innocent delight in her eyes.

"Well, someone kill it!" shrills an angel with a greenish cast over his black feathers. "We don't have much time!"

"Let Raphael do it." Uriel's voice is neutral and controlled, an evident source of comfort for the rest of the panicked angels. "Let's see how he slaughters one of these creatures, that way we'll all know how to when we meet another."

Raffe seems to unfreeze like a statue, blinking repeatedly, as if banishing sleep from his eyes. But I know that's it's not sleep he's getting rid of. His dark blue eyes sweep over the crowd of terrified angels.

A surreptitious feather of agony twirls poignantly around his pupil, the glimmer of torture so much more severe than any other than self-inflicted anguish. His throat bobs, and, amongst the crowd, he finds my gaze, as if searching for some sort of reassurance, as if seeking comfort, understanding, maybe even acceptance – but he finds none of it.

"Please," I mouth, my lips barely moving. "No, Raffe, please…"

He lowers his head, and his gaze slips shamefully from mine. Again, Raffe swallows, adjusting his grip on the sword as he does so.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he stalks towards Belle – he gives her every mean to escape, every mean to dash away from him at the last moment. Who knows – he might be trying to tell her to run, telling her it isn't safe for her here, telling her that he can't protect her from himself.

Nothing but blind faith shines in those beautiful, expressive eyes – a faith I had placed there.

I bite my lip hard, the lump in my throat becoming painful and dry. Memories of my words to her after her nightmare flow back to me like a dam of emotion. As Raffe approaches Belle, his body turned pitch black by the lights of the flickering candles in the corners of the room, she turns to face him with love, adoration in her gaze, and purrs out a gentle greeting, welcoming him back to his seat with her beautiful doe eyes.

She'd never hurt him. Because she loves him. She'd never hurt him, no matter what. And she still believes that he'd never hurt her.

Raffe's blade shines in the candlelight as he lifts it over his head. It almost reminds me of a reaper, with his scythe raised in a silent threat over his head. Raffe takes one last deep breath, a barely discernable tremble shaking through his body.

Belle whistles in confusion, for the first time seeming the slightest bit wary of the blade hanging over her head. Her eyes find me from where I stand behind him. They swim with misunderstanding, as if not comprehending why the angel that loves her so is showing her all these signs of aggression, not understanding the extent of her mistake. I have no answers for her, shaking my head in horror, pleading with my eyes in a silent language she doesn't comprehend. She flicks her irreproachable gaze back up to Raffe in time to see his blade swing down.

A severed head falls to the floor.

A limp body quickly follows, lolling over the back of his chair with a sick thud.

And a sob rips from my chest as I collapse onto my knees, staring at those beautiful eyes, frozen with their lids spread wide in shock.

* * *

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	52. Chapter Fifty-One

**Chapter Fifty One**

Emilio's hand wraps around my arm immediately after my knees hit the wooden, yanking me roughly to my feet. My wrist stings as he grips me tighter and tighter, holding me up more than my own legs.

Though I don't necessarily notice nor care, angels begin to glance our way, their expressions ranging from curious to annoyed to furious. This I'm sure does not go uncounted in Emilio's book.

"Excuse her," he chuckles nervously, throwing my arm over his shoulder and wrapping his around my waist, like he's going to help me limp home rather than drag me up the stairs like he'll have to. "Any stress just sends her wailing. It's a condition, I believe. I'll send in another waitress."

And, without another word to his superiors, without waiting to be dismissed by anyone in charge of human forces, Emilio twists me around and begins marching off. He attempts to get me moving independently as well. My feet drag over the ground as I frantically try to keep up, stemming my tears and burying my face into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I choke out between tears, willing to stop the sobs rocking through me but unable to dam the emotions that keep sending more and more tears. "I'm sorry… causing a scene…"

"No." Emilio's voice is adamant. "If you reacted in any other way, you'd be just as bad as all of them. Hold yourself together for just a moment more, though…"

I do, stifling my sobs as we escape through the little servant's hatch. The second we pass through the kitchen doors, another tidal wave of emotion hits me, and my knees go weak again. This time, the kitchen staff is my audience as I stupidly think of how I'd comforted Belle last night, and how I'd refused her company just earlier.

Emilio murmurs something in Spanish as I sag lifelessly against him with a burst of tears, but, though I'm not certain I want to know what they mean, his words are not unkind and his arms are gentle. Continuing to chant gently to me in his lively language, Emilio strokes the back of my hair.

After a few moments of attracting attention from the kitchen servants that'd began to trickle back to their posts, a burn of shame defiles my heartache, and I attempt to hide myself behind Emilio, unwilling for any of these people to see me like this – they don't understand, they don't know what's happened, and there they sit upon their thrones and watch me. They didn't know Belle. If they did, they would be in tears, too.

Noticing my change in manner, Emilio scoops me up into his arms like a baby, falling silent as he shoulders his way through the humans around us. I try to hide myself against his chest, keeping my face shadowed and tossing hair into the streaks of tears down my cheeks.

He pauses at the foot of the stairway, but it doesn't occur to my grief-drowned mind that he might be taking me back to Raffe's apartment until he whispers to me, "Do you wish to go to your aunt's, or… his?"

Raffe. My throat feels as if it's about to rip apart as I burst into another bout of sobs. "Not. Him."

Emilio sighs sorrowfully, looking down at me with big almond eyes and a sad, sad smile pulling at his thick lips. He curses something softly in Spanish before unfolding his long, muscled wings and taking to the sky. As he soars upwards, the occasional window paints silver streaks over his swift wings, over his magnanimous face.

There's something oddly soothing about flying – the cool air massages my face as we soar upwards, gently brushing my hair from my eyes. Emilio's warmth repels any chill that the cold weather might bring to the wind, allowing its cool fingers to purely serve as comforters.

My heart squeezes, glimpsing his white feathers in a shaft of moonlight, reminded of Belle's little white wings as she'd frantically flapped after Bryon and Raffe at Sercem Domu, and I suddenly am quite thankful for the fact that Emilio's flight has come to an end.

His breathing is heavy, I notice through a thick glaze of tears, but he doesn't seem otherwise winded.

Tap, tap, tap, his feet down the hall, brisk and almost angry, as if his saccharine pity for me is morphing into something more heated. Once, I hear a door open, as if an inquisitive she-angel is looking for the reason for the pound of his shoes, but with my blurred vision, I see one of his wings snake out and slam the door shut with the tips of his stiff primaries.

At the end of the hall, Emilio awkwardly jostles with the door handle without releasing me, pushing his way through and kicking it shut behind him. The familiar light of Audiat's stained glass windows pour over me, and the dreamcatchers twirl with cheerful hellos. It's too happy, too halcyon, as if nothing had happened – as if Belle were just any other pawn on the chess board. As if her death wasn't to be rewarded with anything more than a few half-assed apologies from the one she loved the most.

Raffe.

Moaning pathetically, I begin to cry again, throwing my hands around Emilio's neck – he supports me generously, stroking at my hair, hushing me with gentle Spanish words.

It's not really him that I seek out, but his comfort, just someone here to even get a glimpse of the pain like hot iron in my heart. I want someone to know that I'm not just blubbering like a pathetic little girl; it's pain, and he seems to get that, seems to understand. It's not a pathetic sort of pity I see in his maudlin eyes, but the sort of pity on the faces of veterans when they see wounded soldiers. It makes me cling to him like a wet rag, but all the while, he takes it calmly and patiently.

Once, as he walks slowly through the room, it occurs to me that it's his job to do so, and nothing more – but then he gingerly sweeps the hair from my face, murmuring something in Spanish to me, and all thoughts of his dishonesty are banished from my mind.

"It hurts, I know," Emilio mumbles, my sense of up and down shifting as we enter a darkened space and he begins to lean over. "And it won't stop hurting for a while. Trust me, it's best to sleep, now." My back touches a soft comforter, and my eyes snap open as I realize he's easing me down onto Audiat's lower bunk.

He pauses, and blinking the tears from my eyes, I watch him bite at his lips as my shoulders rock. "Unless," he considers thoughtfully, "you'd like to take a hot shower first? That helps with grief."

"No…" My voice sounds like the creak of an old wooden door. Clearing it, I swallow painfully, the corners of my mouth tugging down and my eyes threatening tears again. "No. But to hell with this dress…"

Nodding, Emilio sets me against the bed and promptly turns around, stalking out of the room. "I'll be in the kitchen, making you some chamomile. Call out if you… need anything…"

As he walks hesitantly from the room, as if wary about leaving me alone with the demons haunting my thoughts, I curl up in a ball on the bed, not bothering to strip from my dress as I'd claimed, instead pressing my face up against the cool, cold wall and weeping to myself.

Gone. One of my little babies is gone.

Raffe'd killed her. He'd _killed_ her.

Just before I lapse into sleep's awaiting arms, I feel Emilio drape a heavy blanket over my shoulders, and hear him gently sing a soft, Spanish lullaby, before silencing and moving off as if he'd never been there at all.

* * *

Hesitantly, Maion shifts her weight, edgily watching the noisome corpse's body as it lies in the middle of the floor – though the cleanup crew of humans had swept through and pushed all the tables and chairs back into place, they'd left it there. There's something hair-raisingly eerie about the dead Nephilim – its calico scales shine brightly, still maintaining an aura of life beyond death despite its rigid muscles. Though one of them is half-drenched in the blood the head drowns in, its eyes seem to follow her as she walks through the room, like a silent accusation.

In one big gust, Audiat and Ariel swoop into the cafeteria through the balcony, causing Maion to whirl around abruptly. Ariel stalks forward, a deadly gleam in her dark eyes and a frown held at her lips – tall and towering, she insinuates fear in Maion, despite the skipping fairy dancing at her side.

"I'm sorry," Maion stammers, quickly walking up to them. "I didn't –"

"It's sad, isn't it?" Audiat sighs, nodding in understanding. "The baby Nephilim. I thought for a second it was the bastard's own – such trust in its eyes! Hugo said that, according to the little dragon, he might as well have been her father. And poor Penryn! It's sick, just sick."

"Focus, you." Ariel casts her a chastising glance. "Your husband will be here any hour now, and you can mope together. Hold it together until then. Maion, did you clean up nicely? No hidden presents, left behind by our dearest archangel?"

"No bugs." Maion smiles, relieved to have been forgiven by the she-aerie's most deadly. "You must've freaked Uriel out, Audie. There wasn't anything at all beneath any of the tables, chairs, anything. Or on top of them, for that matter."

"That's good." Caught in her acute visual search of the room, Ariel sounds slightly distant, her approval devoid of its usual hard, focused edge. Ariel's leonine eyes scrape the high ceiling, her brow pinching at the purple wine stains on the ceiling. "My, looks like they didn't all make it to the parlor before they dipped into the good stuff."

"Raphael seemed a bit anxious to get onto it," Audiat adds, smiling grimly, as if recalling memories she'd rather never dwell upon again. "Or maybe he was more anxious to get out of it. I frankly couldn't tell."

"Yes, well." Ariel sounds immensely displeased with her decision to allow him amongst her people. "His discomposure leads to an ugly smudge on _our_ ceiling. I can barely look at it. And ugh, that smell – it's even worse than wet dog, alcohol. We'll have to spend days scrubbing this floor to get the odor out of it, never mind the ceiling."

Maion shrugs. "That adds one more mess of his creation to our pile, I suppose. Speaking of messes, what should I do about…?" Awkwardly, she sidesteps, moving a hand towards the dead creature. "It's going to start to smell even worse, but I don't want to just throw it away…"

"Then don't," Audiat suggests coldly, her tone abruptly icing over.

Blinking, Maion double-takes, glancing towards the comically short she-angel in confusion. "…Excuse me?"

"I say we leave it there." Audiat crosses her arms over her chest, shards of flat, dull frost glazing over her eyes. The moonlight coils with her hair, looping in bands and erasing the streaks of soft pink. "I say we let it smell and mold and decompose onto our floor and never, ever move it. Let that body turn to dirt before we move it, and only then to put it in a pot to cherish forever. Let that poor little dragon serve as a monument describing the one thing we must always carry in our hearts as we play a game of cards with these he-angels."

"Oh?" Ariel glances down at Audiat, her dark lips twitching downwards. "And what would that be?"

"That Raphael isn't and will never be anything but Wrath of God." She blinks docilely, tilting her head to one side and smiling, eyes dancing with latent malice. "We may come to appreciate him, to trust him, maybe even to love him, but should the need arise, he will strike out at us without a second thought – just like he did to that Nephilim."

* * *

"Let me in," the archangel growls from the other side of the door, jostling with the knob. "I need to see her."

Detecting the fuzz in his voice and the way his words seem to all blur together, Emilio makes a rapid decision, and settles his weight against the door in a casual precaution. "No, I don't think you need to. You can wait until she wakes up and decides to face you herself."

"Get out of my way," he pleads, a threatening note lain beneath his cries for help. "I need to make her understand. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't!"

"I'm sure your excuses are utterly logical." Emilio's lips twist in distaste. "And you can tell them to Penryn tomorrow morning. Trust me when I say she needs her sleep. Go bark up another tree until then."

"I will knock this door down!" he slurs angrily.

"I don't advise it," Emilio informs him coldly, his blood turning to ice – Bryon's words echo in his ears, warnings about how an archangel is to be feared when drunk, and tales of the mercurial state Raffe is thrust into when he dips a little too heavily into the punch bowl. Once the archangel's fuse has been lit, nothing can be done to mollify his rage, and, despite the frost in his voice, Emilio doubts he can hold the angel off for very long at all.

"I didn't want to!" Raffe snarls, pounding his fist against the door. "It wasn't my fault!"

"Is it your fault that the angels descended?" Emilio demands coolly. "Is it your fault that they killed thousands if not millions of people? Is it your fault that your people crushed an entire civilization? Not everything is directly your fault, you insolent child, but everything can be blamed on you. Now, run along, before I lose my patience."

"Penryn –"

"– doesn't want to see you." Emilio grinds his teeth. "If you won't do this for your own good, do it for hers. She needs to think. She needs to sleep. She's had precious little to cherish and care about and now she's got even less. Give her some time, Raphael, and then, I'm one century – ah, one hundred percent certain that she'll be more open to your claims."

With one last pound on the door that causes its hinges to squeal in protest, the archangel lumbers off, grumbling whole way down the hall.

* * *

My dream consists of fragments – like jagged edges of glass piercing my heart, their pain sharp, rigid, and cracked, as if I'm viewing them through a broken mirror.

_A flicker of Paige – an adult Paige – crosses my view first, staring down at someone, like she's clutching a child's hand. Dark hair tumbles gorgeously over her shoulders. Her laughter, rich, soft, and full of adoration, echoes over the dream as slowly it fades into black, replaced by a high-pitched scream. _

_Babbling whispers like those that come when White Wolf is present echo in the corners of my mind, and, eerily, Raffe's thundering laugh towers above them as slowly, their cadence becomes more frightened, more frantic, as if each of their words are haggard fingernails with which they chip away at me, scratching at my walls, at my sanity. _

_Out of nowhere, a quick flash of a queen of hearts card shines in the moonlight, Paige's face looming beyond it, smiling benignly, then of a bright blue eye, its pupil widening so that it almost swallows the iris, before shrinking to a minuscule speck. _

_And back to the whispers with utter blackness my dream goes, only to rapidly return, this time with a terrifying image. _

_Bryon chokes as the whisper curl around him like caresses, a great fire with flame that seems quite literally golden flaring around him. His eyes bulge in terror and his face goes red – horror consumes his expression as he falls to his knees, gagging, trying to jam a hand down his throat for whatever reason. And, in the last second before my dream returns to black, I swear that, as his hand falls away and his head arches backwards, one of his eyes is a ghostly blue. _

_Black once more, the whispers growing softer, my dream mellows, allowing a smooth female voice to ripple at the edges of my imagination, sounding mourning – it takes me a few moments more than necessary to realize that it's my mother's song, but not my mother's voice. _

_A noise like thunder echoes over my dream, and suddenly, I'm looking at my mother and father lying beside each other in bed, their window thrown open in the middle of a thunderstorm for whatever reason. Lightning illuminates the sky, revealing to me the little body a tiny dragon sitting on the windowsill, watching, causing one bronze eye to blink with light. All the while, the woman softly sings my mother's lullaby. _

_"He killed me." It's Lucius voice, echoing through the darkness, sounding as if it's choked through sobs. "My own father. He killed me and turned me into… into… that thing. Into this thing."_

_Lucius's face appears to me, grinning slyly, his white eyebrows angled sharply downwards with the full moon blazing behind him. For a split second following the creepy second of memory, I glimpse a limp puppet with a fluttering cloak beside one with golden wings._

_"Save me," Lucius pleads, breaking into sobs. "Help me! I'm doing what has to be done! I'm not a monster! Does no one see that? I just want to live a life where all of me is alive! Do they not care about the demon the way they did the boy? Can't they see it's still me?"_

_What becomes even more eerie is when Bryon's voice begins to overlap, just as ridden with emotion. _

_"I see you," his heartbroken whisper echoes. "I see you! Your cycle of good and evil, your pain, your cuts. See me, please! PLEASE! See my good and evil, my agony, what I cut into myself. Why can't they see me? Does no one know who I am? Help me! PLEASE!"_

_And then, suddenly, with a single of Raffe's thunderous chuckles, everything reverts back to silence. _

_My gaze from the point of view of something racing over meadows, something small and close to the ground, like a dog or a cat or maybe a little, little Nephilim, whirls around to show me what lies behind it – a coiling, bronze-scaled tail, a distant burning town with a great billowing smoke rising from it like a feather's plume, and a little brown dragon, its silver eyes wide, little maw opened in a scream. _

_Laid over the image is a shrill, female scream: "HELP ME!"_

_Something slams down from above, something with white feathers in a sea of darkness and a shining, silver blade._

_A little boy's terrified breathing laces through the darkness, panicked and short, riddled with gulps of fear. _

_Abruptly, a vision of Bryon's bronze eye, much younger and set on a scaled face, appears, its pupil narrowing to less than a pinpoint as blood bursts over its eyelids and even onto the iris of the dragon. _

_"Save her," comes a desperate croak through the darkness that immediately follows. My blood runs cold – I can't quite place the voice, but I know it, I know it as sure as I know the back of my hand. "Save her, please. Please, Junior, she doesn't know what she's getting into. Oh, my little boy."_

_First an image of Paige shows, mature and beautiful, her skin as pale as milk in the light of the white moon, the leaves she rests her face against darker than ebony, darker even than her midnight eyes. I see her panting for breath, trying to feign a smile through the agony boiling in those dulling eyes. For the second time in the midst of my dream, my blood goes cold as two eerie blue eyes slam to life in the foliage of the forest behind her. _

_"Run!" screams little boy Lucius. "Run!"_

_Again, Paige's screams, her terror leading me back into darkness. _

_And there it stays dark for so long that I think I've escaped my nightmare, until a little boy's voice takes the place of the woman's that'd been singing earlier – he drifts over the notes like a sparrow, sweet and high and pure, pouring his heart into every strange word. The song rolls over me, drawing both nostalgia and hesitance. _

_Lucius's face appears, but not like I know him – soft and round and smiling, his bronze eyes young and naïve. The pudginess of his cheeks is haloed with a silvery glow, perhaps cast by the light of the moon. With a black forest behind him, he crouches before my point of view. Though it seems bizarre to me, he looks utterly divine, like an otherworldly god. _

_"Shh," his voice whispers above the singing I suddenly realize is his. "Shh. Stop shivering, there's no reason to be afraid anymore. He –" Lucius's voice catches, and he swallows painfully. "He took what he wanted. He's gone now. Come on out, Belle. He loves you – family doesn't hurt family; he'd never hurt you."_

_The world goes black, and Lucius's eerie singing continues. _

_"Bryon?" Sugary and inquisitive, a girl's voice I've never heard before enters the blackness – but I feel as if I should know it, as if somehow, I do know it. _

_"Yes, Belle?" Lucius's voice sends a shiver down my spine – Bryon? She'd been talking to Lucius – why say Bryon?_

_"If family doesn't hurt family…" _

_Her voice trails off, and through the darkness, with a bloodcurdling scream accompanying it, a vision cuts through. Lucius's head is thrust back, his expression a candid blend of terror and absolute, complete, chill-inducing agony. An eruption of scarlet stains the toddler's white grabs, oozing around his fingers as he clutches at the sword through his torso. He slips down the jagged length of a silver blade impaled through his stomach with an earsplitting shriek, all the while sliding closer to a mammoth of a man draped in black with the bluest of eyes shimmering in the darkness. His tortured scream is the sort that haunts nightmares. _

_The girl's last words seem to hang in the air. _

_"Then why did my father hurt you?"_

* * *

"Oh, please," Lucius purrs, strutting slowly into the center of the room, like a tomcat taking the stage. "I see what you're doing, dearie. Good scene, but the play's over now, you can come out of your costume."

His heart receiving a sudden splutter of panic, Emilio shrinks into the shadowed alcove in the wall where the kitchen doors swing slowly from side to side, the light from beyond them causing a beautiful flash of yellow to play over the floor. Curling one hand over his shoulder to grasp the hilt of one of his swords, he curses the vulnerability his disguise as a servant provided him, and instead tugged a knife from his boot. Holding it uncertainly, he watches the monster approach the dead little girl in utter silence.

"Going to play coy, are we?" Lucius chuckles, sidling lazily towards the body. "Darling, two can play at that game, but only one can be convincing. A clue: it's not you."

Emilio's eyes flick from the demon's pale face to the corpse and where it sits, illuminated by a single tear of moonlight dripping through the window. Madness in the dealer of insanity would not be an odd thing for him to accept, but this doesn't feel like madness.

"Oh, come on out." He chuckles boredly, fishing a deck of cards from his pocket to play with absentmindedly, black tongue flicking along his lips. "The sooner you do, the sooner you and I can get along with our little games. Remember our games, Belle? The fun we had? Do you want some more?"

Though his better judgment says otherwise, Emilio begins to ponder whether the demon truly had misplaced a few of his marbles.

"I know you're scared," the demon whispers susurrusly, voice strained with his mad eagerness. Sinking into a crouch before the dead body, he grins patronizingly at it. "And you've got every right to be – being born as something and reborn as something else isn't a walk in the park." His smile turns bitterer. "Trust me. I know. But you've just lost your virginity, darling. Once it happens, it's going to happen again, and you should learn to defend yourself. Good looks don't last forever."

No words echo around, physically or mentally, as best Emilio can tell – but the silence feels different this time, pressing against him, living, conscious, breathing around him. He toys with his blade uncertainly, not knowing what he should stab.

"Well, at least my father didn't cut my head off." Lucius sighs, rising from his crouch and turning his back, fanning the cards in his hand. "I suppose this means that you and I are rivals, dearest. The god and the devil – that's always the way these things play out, isn't it?" He half-cocks his head back to the corpse, and Emilio's blood runs cold. "Drop the act, Belle. Pretending to be something you're not is immature."

Emilio's blood runs cold as the dead body begins to quiver.

It spasms wildly without a head, that stump flailing in the air, losing the stiff quality it'd had earlier. It's as if something is writhing around inside its belly, waiting to be born, shivering and jiggling and trying to burst from its womb. His mouth drops open as, along its spine, spikes suddenly jab – what startles him even more is that they're not truly spikes. They're the same sort of sharp scales that she has along her back, along her neck, and now, they're piercing through her hide.

The sound of ripping flesh is quickly followed by a pungent stench in the air, like rotting meat. Coughing slightly, Emilio cups his hand around his nose, watching as another creature emerges from the belly of the old, like a reptile shedding its skin. Hunks of fat and muscle still cling to the spine scales, impaled along their calico barbs.

"Greetings." Lucius curtseys before the hellbeast crouched before him, its body draped in the blackest of shadows as a cloud crosses the moon's path. "Glad to finally meet you."

Fast as a strike of lightning, the creature darts forward, causing Emilio's heart to rattle in his chest. His fingers fumble around his knife, and a sense of absolute primal terror stamps out his logical thoughts as the creature coils around something.

Emilio's stomach lurches as the creature tosses the decapitated head up into the air. Those empty, jewel-bright eyes _glitter_ as the head twists, falling down. It falls squarely in the mouth of the waiting creature below.

As its throat bobs and carries those beautiful eyes down its gullet, Emilio realizes the morbid horror of what he'd just witnessed.

* * *

_I'm drowning in the whispers. They're all around me, their words like snake tongues flickering in my ears, tickling, hurting, snapping with poisonous teeth. Accusing, wailing, sobbing, hissing, insulting, they whirl around me with the chaos and disorder of a tornado. But abruptly, as if interrupted, they pause, and suddenly, the black turns an unearthly white. Two bronze eyes stare at me in the distance, the only other splash of color a pair of pure black wings. _

_It's a voice like an icy bark, gruff, terrible _– _a cold voice like an axehead being dragged over cement, grating in my ears_. _Heartbreak sings in its frigid, defeated words. _

"YOU HAVE FAILED."

* * *

"Belle…?" Emilio whispers uncertainly as the cloud passes the moon, bathing the creature perched eerily on the back of an empty chair in silvery light.

Its arched neck twitches, and slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, it opens its huge, terrifying eyes, fixing their dead, cold gaze onto him as her neck stiffens and erects, her tail fluttering despondently in a breeze. Slowly, those eyes blink, and their glowing, spectral beauty is accompanied by a pure white smile bristling with ivory fangs.

_Call me Theobella._

* * *

**Theobella. **

**I'm so very, very excited.**

**One by one, puzzle pieces are fitting together. You might want to either start rereading dream scenes or use those brilliant memories of yours.**

**POLL: What is the likelihood of good old Lucius's name truly being Lucius? His mother more likely than not suffered from an unwanted pregnancy, and what sort of mother names their child after the one to have raped them? **

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	53. Chapter Fifty-Two

**Chapter Fifty Two**

"Why does it smell so bad in here?" Maion wonders, wrinkling her nose as she approaches the desk piled high with books, weaving around the mountains to catch a glimpse of the beautiful librarian.

Her hair is a fuzzy mess, piled high with strange cowlicks and odd frizzy bunches of curls. A scowl drags the corners of her chapped lips down, and her spectacles have slid halfway down her nose, threatening to abandon her completely.

"Is it that bad?" Metatron sighs, shoving her bangs from her face in utmost annoyance. From over the rim of a dusty textbook, she shoots Maion a piercing glare. "I've noticed it, of course, but I hadn't thought anyone else did. Smells like something died in here. Maybe something did. Or maybe that wolf just pissed itself."

"That doesn't smell like urine." Frowning, Maion drifts over to where the smell grows more potent. "But God, it does stink. You said that the demon performed some serious undead magic? Maybe it's a remnant of that."

"No…" Vaulting over her desk, Metatron wanders closer towards a particular tree, sniffing daintily. "This is the oak where the magic happens. It smells… good, actually, over here. The smell of damp earth and flowers combined. _Mmm_. What the hell did he do to my tree?"

"Maybe he had some sort of life switch," Maion suggests, curiously circling around the bookshelves of bird anatomy. "The Dragon King's teachings told about one not existing without the other, about all sorts of balances – and you read all these books to me about trading a soul for a soul. Maybe that's what he did, and that's what smelling so bad."

"Oh, Maion." Metatron's head lifts over a beanbag she'd been searching beneath, her eyes flat and disappointed. "I thought you were better than that. All those stories are bullshit. Life and death is in no way related to Bryon's tales. Not that the sorrow of death escapes his fables, but that's not how it works. The only thing that escapes the cycle of belligerence and benevolence is –"

"Madness." Grinning, Maion peeks at Metatron through break in the books, pleased to be reenacting a scene from one of her romantic comedies. "I'm not completely hopeless, you know."

"Bah," Metatron scolds, glancing towards the ground – Maion notices the roses blooming on her cheeks despite her callus tone and the way her feet inch slightly closer, and smiles a little broader. "You spend more time doing loop-de-loops than you do thinking. The man's probably in your mind right now, whispering things to you to help you sound smart. Try harder."

Maion's face falls, and the happy flicker of her heart dampens. "Actually, I hear he's in not such a good state…"

"What do you mean?" Metatron wonders, detecting the change in tones and trying to mask her retread by inspecting the tops of the hanging lights as best she can from her grounded position. "After that rampage, you'd think he'd be fit as a fiddle."

"He accidentally swallowed some things when he was slamming his face into the ground." Assisting Metatron's search with a golden flap of her brilliant wings, Maion shrugs. "Apparently, when he morphed back to… you know, they ruptured his stomach. Nobody's sure when he's going to be okay again, what with his exhaustion and that. Pretty sure it's all infected, too."

"Well, is he here?" Metatron wonders, cocking an eyebrow, watching Maion flutter from light to light. "I'm not an expert and I'll need a bucket, but I could probably take a look at it from afar."

"He's being flown in as we speak, Queasy," Maion teases, soaring down to poke Metatron in the stomach. "We'll just have to see."

Initially, Metatron smiles, releasing something very close to a giggle and staring up through her lashes and glasses at Maion suggestively. But then something else catches the paragon of beauty's eye.

"What was that?" Metatron whispers, reeling backwards moments after her words. Stumbling back a whole dozen feet, her back hits the end of a bookshelf. Wrapping her hands around to clutch at the books for support, Metatron pants, her eyes wild and frightened. Her glasses lie on the ground, their thick lenses refracting a short length of moonlight.

"What?" Maion inquires, watching the mask of bravery begin to crumble across her librarian's face. "Did you see something?"

"Maion…" Metatron's eyes open wide, watching as, one by one, the she-angels fly off and to who knows where. "Maion, the creature that's roaming the halls… it only attacks people who are alone, right? We're not in any danger? It wouldn't – it wouldn't?"

"Where?" Maion demands, drawing her sword, relishing in the flare of fury through her bones it provides. "Where was it?"

"On the ground…" Metatron blinks repeatedly, her lower lip quivering. "Near the… where the wolf… on the floorboards…"

Maion's heart leaps to her throat, astonished to see the quite composed woman so distraught. "What did you see, Metatron?"

"It looked like –" She blinks fearfully, glancing towards Maion with eyes as wide as moons. "It looked like hell itself. It had these eyes, these horrible – "

Metatron's pupils roll back into her head, and her knees buckle as the once-slumbering choir of Jane's mourners tip back their heads and wail in anguish.

* * *

"H-hello?" Paige tentatively calls down the hall, her heart throbbing with painful fear in her chest. Precariously, she takes a step towards the sliver of pale movement she'd glimpsed at the end of the hall, dancing before the massive window. "Who's there?"

A sensation like another's gaze on her prickles at the back of her neck. The response brings memories of a dark cave, of torches going out one by one, and of a chilling figure clothed more in shadow than silk.

"What are you doing, wandering the halls alone?" wonders the demon, his voice almost interested. "It's the middle of the night. The full moon is out. You should be safely tucked in bed."

Paige bites at her lip, edging backwards, her eyes downcast – she isn't quite certain of who this demon is, exactly, but Penryn had told her to never, never look him in the eyes, so she knows she mustn't lest she suffer some severe consequence.

"Don't be afraid." An unfamiliar softer streak enters its harsh, grating voice. "You've got nothing to fear from me. Look, I'm even wearing sunglasses in the middle of the night, like some jerk from American television. So, answer my question."

"I was in his room." Paige jabs a finger towards the door she'd shut firmly behind her, a shiver going up her spine. "But… there's something wrong with Raffe. He's not himself."

"You were in Raphael's room while he was drunk?!" the demon almost shouts, sounding outraged. Paige's pulse speeds up rapidly as the white streak against the window grows swiftly closer, taking the form of a tall, lean man with a pink rose in his pocket, something she's certain she's never seen before.

"Um…" She retreats nervously as he continues to grow closer, sunglasses glinting impassively.

"Are you hurt?" he questions urgently, falling to a crouch while still a dozen feet from her. "Did he go after you? Is he still awake?"

"No…" Paige shakes her head, still inching gradually backwards. "No, he's not awake. He didn't do much. He just paced back and forth and shouted at his own reflection about how unfair everything was for a long time. I don't think he knew I was there – Bay told me to wait for Penryn to get back, and that he needed to check on something with Hugo, and that he'd be back, but he never was. And then Raffe came back and I got so scared because he was in a bad mood and Bryon said –"

Paige cuts off from her babbling with a sharp inhale, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip and focusing very hard on the floor. Her fists ball tightly. It takes her utmost concentration to keep tears from glazing her vision over.

"Hush, now," the demon whispers, his slithering voice a strange comfort in the dark of the night. "Raffe is very frightening, no? It's alright. He gets this way sometimes; you must not be afraid of him."

"I'm not afraid of _him_." Paige winces at her own voice crack. "I'm afraid of _you_."

The demon quiets, as if she'd struck a nerve – he doesn't speak again for a long, long time, kneeling there, halfway shielded by darkness, his head bowed into a thinking position and his sunglasses glinting in the moonlight. Paige struggles with tears all the while. They well at the corners of her eyes, occasionally managing to slip down her porcelain cheeks. Her little fists begin to quiver with effort of stomaching sobs.

"Holding down tears will do nothing to quell your emotions," the demon advises gently, his soft tone providing marginal comfort. "Do you know your way to your sister, little lamb?"

"No!" And with that, Paige falls to her knees, collapsing before the demon. "I just want _Penryn_!"

And, as she weeps snottily alone in the dark hallway, covering her face with her hands, two arms as cold as ice wrap around her.

"Hush, now," the demon whispers, holding her uncomfortably against his cold chest. "Shh, shh, shh. It's alright. He's gone now. Your sister is coming. Your sister will be right here, as soon as the sun rises."

"I want her now!" Paige sobs, making little sense of her own words. "I want Penryn!"

She wraps her little arms around his neck, and, though through her veil of tears, Paige doesn't notice a thing, as she does so, he stiffens, going rigid as a board. So quickly, he relaxes, it's like he'd never tensed at all.

"Hush," the demon whispers, pulling back out of the embrace and holding her at arm's length away, despite her ongoing flow of tears. His movements are awkward and uncertain, Paige notices blearily, as if he's trying to be nice but doesn't know how to yet.

"Do you know where your sister is?" he asks, rubbing a thumb against Paige's shoulder to massage her worries.

"No," Paige sobs, despite her struggles to regain composure.

"Well, then, let's go on an adventure." Lissomely, the demon rises from his sitting position, yet still remains bent over Paige, looking into her eyes through the protecting screens of his reflective glasses. "Tonight of all nights is not a time to be wandering alone – a full moon?" He mumbles beneath his breath, almost sounding worried. "Anyhow, it won't be long before Baelan returns after realizing he left you all alone, that cur, and sounds the alarm. They'll find us, more than likely."

"But… Penryn…" Sniffling and rubbing at her nose, Paige glances towards Raffe's door. "What if she…?"

The demon fishes a hankie from his pocket and hands it to Paige, allowing her to rub her nose and dab her eyes. "I told you, lamb, she'll find us. It won't take long, I assure you. You're a very loved little girl. Come along, I know where we should start our search."

* * *

"Get the girl out of the bed."

I peak my eyes open for mere seconds, enough to realize that the tears of morning don't streak through the stained glass, before I moan and bury my face back into the pillow. Despite the awful stiffness of the dress, the blanket Emilio had provided is soft and warm, almost countering the painful punch my heart receives when my mind wanders back to the happenings of last evening.

"Daine, she needs her rest." Emilio's softly thrumming voice, quiet and only slightly resistant to the order. "This has been tough on her…"

"It's been tough on everyone, boy. Don't humiliate yourself; your leader needs you for once. Get her out of the bed."

"I can get myself out of the bed, Daine." I peer over the edges of my blanket, blinking to focus my fuzzy vision.

His ice cold eyes clap against mine. "Then do it. We've got –" His head lifts suddenly, those blue eyes focused elsewhere. "That's it, time's up. Either get out of the bed or we'll help you."

"I'm sorry," whispers Emilio, approaching me with a hand outstretched. "I stalled for as long as possible, but Bryon's injuries do reign over your own."

"It's okay." Yawning, I swing my feet off the side of the bed, declining his helping hand. "What were you going to do? I'm going back to sleep on the couch. Keep it down, okay?"

"I'm not sure that'll be possible." With his back to the moonlight brightening the air, Emilio watches me, his face drenched in shadow. "The King is being moved here, Penryn. Your uncle. With the condition he's in now – it's not good. I can't guarantee even remote silence while he's here."

"What's wrong with him?" Emilio follows me by a dozen paces as I tread slowly over to the couch, collapsing onto its uncomfortable fabric without much grace. "I mean, will he be okay?"

"He _will_ return to full health." Emilio tilts his head to one side, eyes glittering like cold onyx. "He's suffered through worse. It's only a matter of _when_. There are many things that require the Dragon King's attention – the human leader's complaints about destructed properties, for one. Ariel is climbing the walls with itchiness – everything's gone too well, believe it or not, and she's going to lash out at him, always has, apparently. The demon that's infatuated with you has to deliver some sort of diplomatic news. Even I've got something of utmost importance… for his ears only."

"His ears and mine?" I offer, glancing hopefully up at him as I cocoon myself in the blanket.

"You'll find out soon enough," Emilio murmurs evasively, seeming troubled. The silver cast to his face flickers as something moves in the light trickling in through the balcony window – his sudden observant silent makes me more alert to the soft grunts and quiet commands issued under the protective shield of darkness.

Though I can't see over the back of the couch, Emilio at the foot of my couch can – he seems almost like a knight, standing there unmovingly in his black leather armor, eyes darting about intelligently. That intelligence when blended with a touch of concern sparks the fire of curiosity in my stomach – sitting up to glance over the couch's ridge, I trump my need for sleep with the necessity of answers.

My eyes widen.

It's half a dozen or so Nephilim of mixed genders, races, and sizes, all clustered around a stretcher – they walk slowly and evenly, operating under the command of Daine. The blonde doctor hovers over their shoulders, snapping quick, redundant orders at the team of people. Through the balcony doors and beyond the gently billowing curtains, a familiar four-eared wolf sits, its massive back probably what'd provided the stretcher's transportation here. So tense is the air that even Rumbbaa looks concerned – his huge eyes don't waver from their position upon the stretcher's occupant.

As my uncle's face passes in a ribbon of moonlight, I understand what the fuss is about.

His skin is pasty and wan instead of its usual golden brown undertones, and his expression vacant. Blood cakes most of his chest and still oozes out around nasty, dirty bandages, leaving a glopping trail from the balcony to Audiat's bunk bed. His bare feet are beaten up and bloody, as if he'd walked through a pit of splinters – which, considering both the wreckage he'd caused and his distance from help of any sort, he might've. The rhythmic rocking of his chest isn't so rhythmic. In fact, it's hardly constant at all, pitching wildly like an ocean at sea.

Easily the worst things of it all are his eyes. They feel as if they're too wide, wider than I've ever seen them. Instead of their usual clarity with the brilliant ring of bronze spiraling around his pupil, they're fogged and distant. A milky grey film coats the top. Specks of dust cling to the film, caught in its revolting gunk. The sightless look in those expressive eyes is terrifying in a way I can't begin to understand – quickly, I duck behind the couch again, trying to calm the rapid beating of my heart.

"What the hell," I whisper fearfully.

"He's immersed in a nightmare," comes Audiat's gentle, high voice, quietly lilting from the shadows. "That's what happens to him – he doesn't have night terrors or anything." She laughs breathily, her hair bouncing in the moonlight. "It always creeped the hell out of me."

Slowly, she approaches, appearing from the shadows of a darkened corner. After gently slipping Bryon onto a bed, the Nephilim retreat backwards, tipping their heads in respect as Audiat passes. Their humble reactions to her presence are a gentle reminder that she is, indeed, a Nephilim Queen.

Audiat's walk is one of a prey animal drawing close to a slumbering predator, respectful, tentative, and frightened – but I don't believe it's a fear of him.

Even the wind quiets as she kneels slowly beside him, her gaze not quavering, and her wings stay still against her back, fitting neatly into the concave between her shoulder blades. She seems wary to do anything more than that, as if, after all this time, it doesn't feel right. With a pang in my gut, I can't help but wonder if she feels she even belongs by his side anymore. He's changed from the man I've seen in my dreams – is it possible he'd changed for the worse? Is it possible Audiat doesn't even recognize her own husband anymore?

All my worries are dashed as his head bucks backwards and his mouth spreads wide in a silent scream. His pain influences a rapid response from Audiat – she gasps and almost frantically begins to massage the contours of his face, brushing at his matted hair. She locks hands with his limp fingers and holds them against her chest.

"Hello," she whispers to him, stroking the scorched locks from his face. "Hello, Bryon."

She pauses, looking down at him in a beautiful silence. Her fingers trail over his face, and, slowly, I watch his long eyelashes sweep shut.

"_Bryon_." It sounds like a prayer from her lips. "I don't like the new way to pronounce your name. You will always be my Bree-aw'. Bree-aw', my big, scaly dragon." Sighing with emotion, overflowing both with joy and oncoming tears, Audiat rests her head against Bryon's wounded chest, directly over his heart.

"Your Highness." Daine cautiously approaches. "I need to examine him."

"Call me Audiat." Her lips pinch together in displeasure, and she lifts her head ever so slightly from her husband's chest. "Can you examine him around me, or do I have to move?"

"You seem to have a calming effect on him…" Daine hesitates, sighing, as if it's quite the annoyance to him. "Continue holding his hand. We'll treat its wounds last. Stay out of my way."

"I will be called by my name, but I will not be treated like a pathetic housewife," Audiat says coolly, but she shifts aside and allows room for Daine to kneel beside her.

"Apologies, miss." Daine clinically bows his head to her in a curt gesture of respect. "I realize that this must be very emotional for you. However, it will become considerably more so if we allow Bryon to bleed out."

"You're understood." Despite her official forgiveness, there still remains a hard, piqued edge in her voice that leads me to wonder if Daine's rudeness shall be grudged against, and if she'll ever truly put it behind her. "Now, Geros, I don't have any medical training myself, but an extra pair of hands for you to maneuver would prove useful, would they not?"

"Most definitely." Daine nods in understanding. "Help me remove these bandages – the humans wrapped him up in old sheets, literally. They probably infected the wounds they'd just sterilized…"

"What's up with Daine?" I whisper, assuming that Emilio's ears are as acutely sensitive as an angel's. Not that it would be too difficult for even a human to catch the words, considering he looms at the foot of the couch, but I don't want it to reach Daine's ears.

Morosely, he glances towards me with eyes tinted darker than usual. "I'll tell you later. _Hush_."

And so, with an air of utmost silence weighing the mood with each thick inhale, I silence, peering unto the ceremony with a neutral expression. Though I attempt to remain impassive and detached like I've seen Raffe do, the wet, sticky sound of the strip of fabric being pried off his oozing wounds brings a disgusted scowl to my face.

"Oh, God," I mutter, watching in horror as a matted strip of bandage is peeled away and handed to the waiting Nephilim. "Emilio, is there anywhere else I can spend the night?"

He hesitates, studying Audiat's windows as he picks through his thoughts. "I would offer my place if I had one, but, unfortunately, I don't. Assuming you wish to avoid awkward reunions, you could always beg upon Hugo's door. Your sister may even be home by now."

A flood of pungency billows through the air as a cold, winter breeze sweeps through the room, carrying the scent of Bryon's wounds on its gales. I wrinkle my nose and sink back into the pillows of the sofa, and nod hurriedly. "Hugo's. Sounds great. I'm going."

"I must accompany you, many apologies." Emilio stands back as I shuffle past, swaddled in the blanket, my nose buried where the reek can't reach it. He looks mildly amused with my waddle. "I suggest we hurry. He's going to start crying out in his sleep when Daine begins to poke and prod at his wounds. It's not pleasant for me, I can't imagine what it'd be like for his niece."

* * *

"Duck," Emilio instructs calmly, his hand landing on my shoulder and shoving me downwards. Over my head, a quick flash of metal gleams, followed by Hugo's apologetic yelp.

"Sorry!" he sighs, forcefully slamming one of his metal wings closed against his back, cutting open his finger on the sharp feathers in the process. Sticking his thumb in his mouth, he mutters, "'Dey've been st'ckin', da gea's. Got Bay, 'oo."

He points towards where Bay slouches against the couch, limp and obviously unconscious. I stifle a snigger at the Fallen angel – blacked out like this, he looks a bit more true to his innocent, heavenly nature when compared to the foreboding nature of his appearance.

"Have you finally got those figured out, then?" Emilio forces me down into another duck as Hugo turns away, his other wing swinging over my head. "Obviously not. You're not able to control them at all."

"I'm working on it!" Hugo snaps, ripping his thumb from his mouth. "Look at this!"

At a caterpillar's pace, they both begin to spread open, like a blossoming flower. Hugo grins triumphantly as he does so, taking great care to show us that the wings are utterly freestanding.

"I did it," he gloats. "I just need to figure out how to loosen it all up, how to move them quicker…"

"Even if you did, those wings would never fly," Emilio critiques. "You can look at diagrams of birds all day long if you should choose and you still might create nothing more than scrap metal if you've never flown. The primaries are much too long in comparison to overall wing size."

"Well, then, maybe you can offer me tips in a bit, Mr. Know It All." Hugo crosses his arms over his chest and sticks out his lower lip, seeming slightly crestfallen.

"I think they're amazing!" I praise, bunching my blanket tighter around myself to compensate for its slipping down my shoulders during our hasty ducks. "Is that what you've been working on for ages?"

Hugo nods, the excitement Emilio had sedated sparkling once more with twice the ferocity. "Yes, little burrito, it's what I've been working on. Why are you knocking on my door this late wrapped up in a blanket, by the way? And where is Paige?"

Emilio's back stiffens. "What do you mean?"

"Well, Bay is here." Hugo nods towards his passed out boyfriend. "And Paige isn't. Is she not with you?"

Just as the blood drains from my face, a gentle knock taps the doorframe. It's a soft, inquiring sort of knock, like a little heartbeat, almost.

Beside me, Hugo jumps out of his skin, knocking over a vase of flowers in the process. The crash it creates as it smashes to the floor only adds to the list of things going on, and white glass fans over the carpet like a bomb blast. He curses colorfully and kneels to pick up the glass, only managing to put scrapes on the wooden table it'd been resting on.

"Just… get the door," Emilio sighs, crouching and picking up piece by piece of the glass, his face a candid blend of annoyance and boredom.

Blushing, Hugo picks his way through the glass shards, his wool socks protecting the pads of his feet in a way that I'm exposed to. I glare bitterly at the shoes I'd politedly slipped off at the door.

Hugo creeps over to the door and twists the knob. Paige appears in the doorway, her smiling face providing holy serenity to my racing heart. Clad in a colorful jumper, she looks childlike and simple, the poster child for the perfect little girl – my heart swells. Catching my eyes, Paige walks forward, grinning joyfully, holding out her arms for a hug.

"Glass." A white streak makes my blood run cold, dashing my glee, and a pale hand settles on Paige's shoulder, halting her advancements towards me. "Careful."

Fury boils in my stomach, each new bubble of hatred exploding with more tenacity than the last. I can feel my face reddening with anger.

"What the hell did you do with my –" I take an infuriated step forwards, making the fatal mistake of forgetting about the landmines of glass embedded in the floor. Emilio sighs loudly as I leap backwards in more surprise than pain, stepping on more glass in the process.

"Don't say I didn't warn you!" Lucius lilts, raising an eyebrow over his reflective shades. "Glass." He spreads his arms in explanation. "Careful."

Murderously, I begin to quiver, cursing my helplessness. More than anything, I envy Pooky Bear and her power to cut Lucius and anyone else into sushi. One of the most powerful men I know has already stolen one of my babies from me – this goddamned demon pervert isn't going to make off with Paige. I shoot daggers at him, unable to move without causing a new torrent of blood to spout from my heels.

"What did you do with her?" I hiss, baring my teeth at him. "Why did you kidnap my sister?"

Shadows dancing elegantly over his face, Lucius smirks, glancing down towards Paige. "I win. Cash up."

Her worried expression morphs into disappointment, and, pouting, she digs in the pockets of her outfit. Sighing miserably, Paige hands Lucius a Smartie roll – he snatches it from her hand victoriously, chuckling as the wrapper crinkles and he unfurls his prize.

To my immense surprise, Paige sticks her lip out at me, making sad kitten eyes. My mouth drops open, and I silently plead for an explanation as Lucius pops one of the candies into his black, fanged mouth, tipping his head back with a small grunt of pleasure.

"I bet that you wouldn't blame him," Paige explains, sounding bummed. "He bet that you would. He's got my Smartie now."

"The deal was for a Smartie." Crunching contentedly down on his little tablet, he hands her the roll of candies. "I've had my Smartie, the rest are yours. Always respect a deal, little lamb."

* * *

_Where is Raphael?_

Audiat's head rears from Bryon's chest, jarring her abruptly from the confines of sleep. The patches dappling her face where Bryon's boiling flesh had been heating her skin now feel exposed, naked, in the night chill. Audiat shoots to her feet, shaking her head to clear it, and whips her gaze around. No one can be seen.

"Who are you?" Audiat whispers, straining her ears to hear the sound of a life somewhere out in the darkness.

The only heartbeat is Bryon's.

A slightest flicker of movement catches her eye – Audiat whips around to where the moonlight streams in through the open balcony doors. Her first thought is that the Nephilim had been highly inconsiderate, leaving the doors open and allowing the frosty breezes to rustle around her room. The second is that, perched on the banister, sitting still amongst the rippling, translucent curtains, is an eerie silhouette.

Chills rifle through Audiat's feathers. She sinks back to the ground, looping her hand through Bryon's stiff, unmoving one.

On the still, erect figure, two eyes can be seen – but not on the figure itself. On its _shadow_. There, on the ground, are two eyes, one tinged blue and the other almost having a metallic hue. At first, Audiat is uncertain, but a slow, lethargic blink causes the eyes to wane and wax like terrifying crescent moons.

"What do you want?"

_I will not repeat my question._ Its tail dangles beneath it, twisting in the wind like a strip of silk, and, on its black face, the pure ivory of a madman's smile spreads over the shadow, broad and reaching from ear to ear. _I have other methods. Do not stall. _

In his sleep, Bryon begins to growl, his lips peeling back. The entire bed trembles with his ferocity. Surprised, Audiat glances towards him, wondering with a flutter of hope that he might awaken – however, he quiets just as suddenly as he'd erupted, without any true signs of progress.

When Audiat sheepishly glances over her shoulder at the shadow, frightened of what she may find awaiting her, nothing more than the shiver of the flailing curtains greets her.

Tremors rock Audiat's body. Glancing around fearfully at the dark, not able to muster the courage to creep out of the nook and shut the balcony doors, she slips into Bryon's bed beside him. Curling up with the blankets around her and her face turned outwards, Audiat scoots closer against his motionless body, silently vowing to protect him from the shadows themselves. As she swallows down her primal fear, Audiat yearns for nothing more than her Bryon back. Again she anxiously longs for his arms to wrap around her and burn all the shadows away.

* * *

"Oh, uh."

In the corner of my vision, I see Hugo suddenly pivot from the ajar position he'd opened the door to, closing it to just a sliver. From over the lip of my tea mug, I inspect the nervous twitch of his back muscles – though whether it's from the one that'd been knocking upon his door at such an hour or the stress of holding his metal wings for ages upon his shoulders is a question I don't know the answer to.

"Look, it's a little busy in here," Hugo apologizes. "Another time, eh?"

And it is, indeed, quite busy, and bustling with society. An electric fireplace Bay had stolen from an old house while at the human camp blazes before me, around it clumping Emilio and a few of his Nephilim friends. They speak in hushed voices and expertly combine the spices and herbs to create delicious teas held in each of their hands. Around my feet curls Paige, frightened after her midnight ordeal with a drunk Raffe and exhausted after all her excitement of seeing Emilio alive and well again. Bay sits shamefully beside her, sheltering us with one of his sleek black wings.

Although it hadn't been his fault Hugo had clubbed him upside the head with one of his metal wings and efficiently knocked him out for many an hour, his guilt seems permanently stamped onto his expression with every sheepish glance up towards me or down towards Paige. I had initially been pissed that he'd left Paige alone at all, but now, with my baby safe from Raffe, it's water under the bridge, and I'm at ease with reclining around with this eclectic group of friends.

In a dark corner of the room, even Lucius paces back and forth, speaking in a quiet, barely audible voice into the muzzle of a phone. He holds it oddly, I realize, watching him – it's a very fine-fingered position, using only his dainty fingertips, and not allowing the phone's surface to brush hair nor cheek. For whatever reason, he's got a rose in his suit now, but it's wilted and dying, its once-pink petals fringed with sable.

"You need to keep it down," husks a sleepy voice from the other side of the door. "You're… you're… keeping people up. Angels."

At the sound of Raffe, Emilio and his two buddies silence immediately, their eyes all blowing wide. Hands fly to weapons at their belts just as my legs squeeze Paige in a hug. Both of the warriors glance towards Emilio for reassurance, for guidance, so I follow their example. After all, only Emilio seems at ease with the situation. Calmly giving his warriors a hand signal that relaxes their constricting grips around the necks of their swords, he briefly meets my eyes, his gaze holding a cool warning. He's prepared for the worst should the worst happen.

"Oh, well, very sorry." Hugo laughs nervously. "Have fun with the alcohol. We'll… keep things quieter. That way, you won't be able to hear us through the ceiling. Wouldn't that be nice? Okay? Okay. G'bye."

"Penryn?" he calls into the room, sounding startled, as if he hadn't expected to find me here. My hands tighten around the mug of tea in panic, and I find a sudden interest in the faux glow of the flame. Tears cling to the lump in my throat, threatening to break over me like an ocean wave. I hover protectively over Paige and refuse to glance his way.

"Penryn…" He shoves Hugo aside with one nudge of his forearm, sparking indignation from Bay, and prowls into the room, eyes narrowed… but not focused on me as I'd expected. His expression is one of awe, of drunken disbelief. "Penryn, what's going on? Is that…?"

"Yes, that." Emilio shrugs helplessly. "_That_ was what I wanted to speak with Bryon about. Keep the balcony doors locked. Don't let her inside. It wouldn't be good for anyone. What – hey, _hey_! Hey, where are you –"

A blast of cold air ripples through the room as Raffe swings the balcony doors open.

* * *

**I had to cut out drunk Raffe scenes, and that makes me sad.**

**POLL: Emilio's never truly been assigned a rank other than Bryon's little assistant, but how high do you believe he would really be placed in a hierarchy situation? **

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	54. Chapter Fifty-Three

**Chapter Fifty Three**

"Belle!" I shriek, dropping my mug – thankfully, Bay's hand snakes up and snatches it before disaster can strike and shrapnel can litter the floor, but I pay him little heed. Shooting to my feet, I drop the blanket and dash forward, only to collapse to my knees as I draw close. It seems to matter little to her – despite Emilio's exasperated cry of warning, she moves like a bronze streak, racing around Raffe and twirling up my legs.

"Belle," I whisper, leaning my head against her body as it wraps around my neck, a thick band of muscle and sinew. "Belle, Belle, Belle, Belle…"

I stroke at her mane and massage at her little wings, breaking into ecstatic sobs as she coils tighter and tighter around me. Her tail tucks and wraps around my throat, and her head rests against my jugular vein as if she's measuring my fluttering pulses. Purring, she tickles the skin of my throat with a long, leisurely lap of her tongue.

"Oh, thank you, God," Raffe whispers, stumbling towards me. His shadow passes over our moonlight, and, though I shrink away from him, I can't stop the arms from enfolding around me, followed by silky soft feathers.

As his feathers brush against my cheek, I swivel around and bite into the warmth of muscle.

With a shout of surprise, Raffe rips his wings backwards, causing my teeth to rake one or two curls of his downy plumage from his flesh. Spitting them out of my mouth, I glare venomously at him, baring my teeth up at those mystified blue eyes.

"Don't you get near her!" I hiss. "Stay away from us, Raffe! You're not one of us!"

Maybe I'm being petty by saying that. Maybe I'm being a little bitch, keeping Belle all for myself. Maybe I'm cutting him off, maybe I'm being cruel. But it's time for me to rip the bandage off, time for him to get shoved out the window, and time for me to stop living my romantic fantasy before it gets someone I really love killed.

Raffe stares at me sideways. "Penryn, what's going on? What are you –"

The malicious rasp of leather releasing metal stops him halfway through his words, quickly followed by more hisses. In the corner of my eye, Emilio's swords glint, and behind him, the blades of additional Nephilim shine as well.

"You heard her," Emilio threatens coldly. "_Back_. And, Penryn, put the lizard down."

Raffe's wings raise, their silhouettes against the moonlight revealing to me that I'd taken the feathers out of the wing opposite the scissor slice. "Don't you get close to either of them, matador. Stay away from my girls."

_My girls. _A shiver travels down my spine.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Hugo mutters in the background. His head buries into his hand, fingers rubbing at his temple. "Step back, you brutes. Just let Pigeon-Bat and Penryn talk it out. Swords down, all of you. Bay, Paige, Tallulah, with me."

"What did you call me?" Lucius wonders, sounding more amused than pissed. He ambles out of his dark corner, lips pulled back in the hair-raising smirk I've come to recognize and even fear, his sunglasses glinting just as wickedly as Emilio's swords. Theobella seems to watch him as he passes, the scales of her mane standing on end as he draws near, then flattening as he walks off.

"Penryn, what's your issue?" Raffe growls, dismissing our audience without wasting another moment on them. He paces back and forth, opening and closing his wings in agitation, causing the moonlight to dance over my face. "Belle is fine. Aren't you, little lizard?"

Belle doesn't twitch at her name – she remains still, like a metal necklace entwined around my throat.

"No closer!" I warn him, hands grappling over the stubbly carpet to find one of his feathers. Shaking it ominously at him, I shout, "I will bite you!"

"What was up with that, by the way?" In the silver of the moonlight, Raffe gnashes his teeth. "Was taking a chunk out of me really necessary? Is it really so hard to use big-girl words?"

"I don't know!" I cry out at him, staggering to my feet, shivering in the winter's cold. "I don't know! Would you have listened? Would you have cared? I don't know anymore!"

"Well, you certainly used to know, so what's changed, Penryn?" Raffe runs his fingers through his hair. "Belle is fine – she's right there! It's okay! Everything's better! Why are you still freaking out about it?"

Biting my lip, I turn my gaze away from him, taking sudden interest in the foot of Hugo's bed. The clawed feet braced against the floorboards are perhaps more likely to be found on the legs of a bathtub, but surprisingly suiting for the eccentric boy.

"Penryn!" Raffe snaps, the strain in his voice frustrated and impatient.

"How am I supposed to trust you now?" I whisper, my face still hidden behind my screen of hair.

After a sharp inhale, Raffe falls silent. Through the forest of my hair, I silently watch him lower his head and examine his hands.

"Why?" My voice cracks. "I get that she's okay now" – I stroke Belle's head fervently, causing the little dragon to purr and Emilio to bristle with unease – "but why did you do it? She – she loved you. And she trusted you. I told her that you wouldn't lay a finger on her. And you said you wouldn't. Why did you?"

"You know exactly why." Raffe's voice is rough, gravelly, teeming with a defeated sort of emotion. "I had no other choice."

"Of course you did!" I scold, growing tense, each muscle in my body going rigid as if in preparation for a fight. "You could've lied, could've laughed, could've pointed a finger at the one who'd suggested that she's a Nephilim – anything but what you did!"

"And how would they have reacted, Penryn?" he inquires coolly. "You heard Uriel. The tone of his voice. Maybe you didn't see the cruelty in his eyes, but I did. It was almost queer, the amount of hatred burning there. Unlike him to be so uncomposed. But there was no way out of that situation for Belle. If I made an excuse, passed her off as a squirrel or something, he would've ordered her impaled on a spit and roasted alive for festivities. If I had called her a pet, he would've accused me of harboring Nephilim, and then killed her himself. Or even worse, he'd do what he did to me – toy around, make her believe she was safe, and then rip her to pieces the moment her back was turned. I gave her what I thought was a painless death." He blinks. "Speaking of that, how are you alive, Belle?"

_Theobella._ Her bright eyes seal shut slowly, veiling the black slits slicing her jeweled gaze apart. _Call me Theobella._

"Is that your full name, or what?" Hugo wonders, voice lazily bemused. "Cuz, no offense, but going around and changing your name doesn't flow too well around here, even if you've kicked the bucket. Bay has a bad memory."

A twitch yanks her tufted tail back from the hollow beneath my jaw. Her eyes open again, and, for the first time, she moves, her head lifting from the contour my by lifegiving vein. Stained black, her scales do not reflect the bright moonlight, despite the fullness of its ivory face. Darkened and ominous, the dragon stares flatly in Hugo's direction, still as a statue perched upon my shoulders.

_Theobella._ Her eyes shutter and then quickly snap apart in a blink. _It means the Beauty of God. _

"Well, that's entirely up to the language," Lucius murmurs, glancing up from his game of solitary. "Don't get cocky. Bella, though it does mean beauty in Italian, can also be traced back to Latin, in which it roughly translates war." His sunglasses produce a blinding glare as he lifts his head. "Conflict. Hostility. In which case, you'd be the War of God. And, in my language, Yheo – pronounced like _Theo_, dear reader – means horror, and bbel means misery, so you'd be the Horror of Misery. Or in your own ancient language of the Nephilim, in which T'ea means 'terror' and not 'divine', after good old Theophilia, mother of the Dragon King, and Bel'a means gorgeous. So, in English, you'd be Gorgeous Terror."

_Gorgeous Terror._ A shiver runs down my spine. I've heard those words before, I'm sure of it, but I can't put a finger on where.

"Whatever." Hugo shrugs in my periphery. "No matter how you butcher it, that is the queen of all stripper names. Like, the stripper name of a goddess."

"Not better than Candy," Lucius argues, setting up a game of solitary onto a desk. "Candy trumps all. Love me some Candy."

"Why are you here?" Raffe snaps irritably, rounding on the demon with abhorring blue eyes. "Who allowed him entrance?"

"Somebody did, which is more than I can say about you," Bay defends, his voice kind and startlingly motherly. "Raphael, friend, you're drunk as hell and confused even moreso. Would you like some tea? Perhaps a warm place by the fire?"

Raffe glares vehemently at Bay. "I don't need your coddling. Leave me alone."

"Have it your way." Smiling benignly, Bay steps forward. His eyes are abruptly as flat and cold as riverstones, and he draws a jet black sword, the likes of which I've only seen once before. I watched it take the hundreds of lives in the cherub swarm. "You have decided to refuse my hospitality. So, get out."

Taken aback by Bay's cool, deadly approach, Raffe jumps. "What?"

"Get out." Bay lifts his sword to his face and inspects one of the edges before glaring over the top of the blade at Raffe, like a cat wondering in what manner it'll rip up a curtain or devour a mouse. "I won't say it again, friend."

"I'll drink your tea, then." Miffed, he stomps over to the spices and leaves with his nose in the air, wings still opening and closing with agitation. As if he'd been anticipating that response, Bay smiles and sheathes his sword again, throwing an arm around Hugo. Smiling, I leave them to their conversation after a single Hugo comment on the sexiness of Fallen angels taking control of a situation.

"I'm so glad you're back, Belle – or, ah, Theobella." I brush down her scales, feeling her pleasured purr rumble against my skin. "I thought I'd lost you. How on Earth did you –" I choke. "How?"

_That is a question I cannot answer. _

"Cannot or will not?" Emilio growls, still looking extremely distrustful of the Nephilim – perhaps he'd had more of a rural upbringing than he cares to admit, and had been raised on silly stories of demons and things. "Penryn, I am your servant, but I'm also your protector. I must _insist_ that you unwind that thing at once."

Casually, Belle's – Theobella's – tail wraps around my neck even tighter, like a chain clamping itself around a dog's neck. Unease is not the word I'd use to describe the stir of emotion this somewhat bizarre action provides – more like uncertainty, maybe?

"She's just a baby," I refute adamantly, cupping Belle against me. "And she's probably traumatized. I can't leave her alone."

His eyes narrow like the gaze of a hawk. "It goes against the laws of nature for a creature to get their head chopped off and then to be up and walking, Penryn," he argues with a steely tone of voice. "Bad things happen when someone messes with the universal code. Really bad things."

"Amen," sighs Lucius darkly, more himself to anyone else. Such a bizarre, out of place statement does earn him a short span of attention – as if he's got this odd obsession with corners, there he lurks again, leaning against the wall and toying with a gear assumedly belonging to Hugo, spinning it on his finger like a basketball.

Ignoring him and any other silly antics the demon may attempt, I turn my nose up to Emilio. "People aren't supposed to turn into lion doves, either. So all Nephilim go against the codes of nature. Are we in the wrong? No."

He shakes his head in annoyance. "Penryn, that's a perfectly normal thing to happen. This is not natural. This is not supposed to happen. When you can't kill something, it's oftentimes a _bad_ thing. That is the only moral on any of your stupid American TV!"

In my heart, I know he's right. There is something incredibly fishy about the situation. No matter of hoping that the universe had just paid me back for all my bad luck will change the fact that there is something different – something wrong. But to leave Theobella alone when she herself must be facing turmoil? It's appalling Emilio would suggest it at all.

"Well, maybe it's natural to her," I suggest tenaciously. "Like a person wouldn't believe in turning from beast to man, but for a Nephilim, it's normal. Maybe it's something like that."

Eyes flashing distrustfully, Emilio turns away, seeming pissed at my lack of trust in his word. He sheathes both of his swords in a fluid motion – watching them return to their scabbards on his back is quite the relief, but also slightly frightening, as if now with him as a diffused threat, things will be different. With a shadowed glance backwards, Emilio seems to try to be telling me that he thinks so, too. Darkly, he mutters, "La mona aunque se vista de seda, mona se queda," and turns away, pacing the length of the room in agitation.

"What did you say?" After a few seconds of his lips remaining sealed, I turn to the rest of the ensemble. "What did he say?"

"Called you a monkey, basically." Yawning, Hugo stalks like a cat to the center of the room and reclines in front of the fire. "That was fun. Just kidding, that was absolutely miserably. Bay, let's cuddle. Come here, furball."

"Furball?" Bay wonders, sounding rather confused. He plods obediently by Hugo's side and slips down onto the fuzzy carpet with him, arm-in-arm. The two huddle there in each other's embraces, murmuring softly to one another while staring at the same repetition of false fire smoldering in the belly of the machine.

Grinning, I walk over to them, stroking Theobella all the way. Paige, too, waddles my direction, looking curiously up at Belle – not a dash of hostility burdens her innocence, a quality I can't help but admire. She hugs at my legs, then pulls at my waitress's dress, begging to get closer to Theobella.

"Why did she choose the name Theobella?" Paige wonders in an awed voice as I descend beside her. "Is that your real name, or were you like the Lonely Demon?"

Theobella's head lifts in a question, her gaze moving towards Paige. She blinks slowly.

"You know, how his dad forced him to give up his old name," Paige explains. "Were you like that? Is your dad forcing you to give up your name? Do you have a dad?"

Her voice the mental equivalent of a deadpan as her head drops back to my collarbone. _My name is Theobella. That is all._

"Oh." Paige's eyes dampen slightly. "Oh, okay. …Would you like a Smartie?"

_No._

"Yes!" Bay cries, thrusting back his head, eyes glittering excitedly. "May I please have one, Miss Young?"

Giggling, Paige drops one into his mouth, at complete ease with the Fallen angel. He chomps down contentedly on the treat, closing his eyes in the pleasure of it, before continuing to groom through Hugo's hair, more like an ape than I've ever seen him or any winged man ever look.

"Hey, Paige, what did Tallulah do with you?" Hugo wonders, lazily lifting one of his eyelids. With his head in Bay's lap and his hands twined together on his chest, he resembles Snow White before True Love's Kiss. "I mean, like, it was quite a while ago that you became stranded with you-know-who. What'd Daddy Issues do with you between then and now?"

"Not much." Paige shrugs. "We talked. A lot. He's patient. And sassy. He's sort of like your type of nice, Raffe."

Raffe shoots her a cutting glare from across the room as he grouchily stirs his tea. "What?"

"Like, the type of nice that's nice by not being nice," Paige explains.

"Wow." Hugo's eye rolls shut. "That clears things up. Thanks, Paige."

"He calls me a lamb for some reason," she continues, eager to talk – and I let her, listening along to every word she says, knowing that I get precious little time to just hang out with her from this point onwards until the end. "I think it's because I'm small compared to him. But I think he's more like a lamb, don't you? Because he's all white, and his hair is fluffy?"

"How do you know that?" I wonder, scrunching my brow.

"Because when we saved the she-angel, I got to ride on his shoulders," Paige explains. Suddenly, her eyes split wide open, and she claps her hands to her mouth, spraying her Smarties everywhere in the process.

"Oh, no!" she wails, voice muffled. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"Don't worry. He left." Hugo props himself on an elbow, accidentally hitting Bay doing so. "Saying something about work. Why? What happened?"

"I'm not sure." Paige's eyes lower to the fire's burn, and orange dances over her face.

"What do you mean, you're not sure?" I inquire, reaching forward and grabbing Paige's hand, rubbing a thumb over it to reassure her. "What did you see, baby?"

"I saw the Lonely Demon being angry." Her dark eyes twist to mine, shimmering with false firelight. "He was _so angry_, Ryn-ryn. It was _scary_. It was – we were walking – it was like a superhero movie. We saw the nice woman being… I don't know… with this not nice guy. I don't know what was happening, but the woman was screaming against his hand. And he just… he was doing what a hero would do, but he wasn't good. He was so scary. And the man… the man…"

She buries her face in her hands, moaning. I wrap her up into an embrace, disregarding the Smarties that spill from her lap to mine – burying her face into my chest, she wraps her arms tightly around me, crying without sobs against me. A shiver runs through her body.

"It was like what I used to do, Ryn-ryn," she whispers heartbrokenly. "When I was a thing. Except he didn't do it to eat. He was just _angry_."

"Was the man an angel?" Raffe thrums questioningly.

She nods into me, sniffling slightly. "A big, mean angel. He was black as night with these big, evil eyes, like a villain… but he was scared. He was more scared than me."

Emilio pauses in his restless pacing, his back stiffening upon mention of the evil angel. Had I not been currently too infuriated with his assuming actions with Belle – Theobella – I would've noticed the livid undertone in the cool mask over his face.

"And you think that he's a nice guy?" Hugo chuckles, shaking his head, his expression one of utter bliss as Bay's hands begin to massage over his shoulders. "You're so much like your uncle it's crazy. I _still_ don't understand why the hell he took you under his wing, so to speak, Pigeon-Bat."

"He's a good man." Bay shrugs. "Lord, he has his dark side, something I never want to see again, but all in all, he's a good man. He believes in your ability to change, Raphael." Bay smiles broadly, any vacancy in his eyes disappearing with its radiance. "Do me a favor and don't let him down. I do hate seeing him sad more than I do angry."

* * *

"What's wrong with her?" Uncertainly, Maion hangs over the demon's shoulder, hovering awkwardly. "Can you fix her?"

"Quiet," Lucius commands, his voice spiked with irritation. "I'm trying to focus."

His hand lies gently on her forehead, as if taking a temperature – Maion's pulse jumps at seeing those slender, spidery fingers drape across Metatron's skin, but knows of no other possible way to receive answers. The physician couldn't fathom what could've impaired one with such tenacious willpower so easily, their only conclusion being that whatever had befallen the wolf, the librarian's bane, had also infected her.

Uncertain and desperate, Maion had been left with two choices – she could either plead Laylah, the superior physician, for her help, or she could strike a deal with the sole most dangerous on the planet.

"How peculiar." Sarcasm bites deep into the demon's tone. "Her brain's being suppressed by a greater force. The same one pinning the madwoman's thoughts down." His black fangs gnaw at his lower lip, his expression one of fierce concentration. "Unfortunately, that docks my prime suspect for this madness. And subject two…" He trails off, sinking deeper into his brooding reverie.

"Can you help her?"

Lucius shifts his gaze to the librarian, causing Maion to as well. The frozen expression of utmost terror across her face, the nothingness in her eyes, and the rigid position held in her joints makes her stomach tremble.

"Remember when you angels first descended to earth?" Lucius muses, more caught in his own thoughts than focused on the task at hand. "You two acted silly one evening. I was off on a dusky stroll when I heard the two of you – what gave you the idea that singing 'The Gambler' into the mirror then chanting my name would make me appear?"

Maion's lips twitch in mortification. "Um…"

"She did see me in the mirror, you know," he chuckles. "She wasn't lying or trying to pull your leg. It ruffled her feathers that you didn't believe her, but she forgave you anyway."

Maion sits in silence, allowing him to continue on whatever vestige of moral remains in his heart.

At last, the demon sighs. "I can dispel the influence, but it is much, much more powerful than I have the ability to muster at the moment. Something else is leeching off of my power. Any more time and your shared happy memories will waste away into nothingness. For the time being, all that's being lost are details to her books – she shall enjoy rereading them all, I expect."

"How much time do we have?" Maion demands.

"Not long." Lucius's sunglasses glint. "I ask you now to make a difficult decision. In order to remove the mental wall, I must have… severe mental infusion. Such actions would only be available to me if I were to make her one of my wives."

Maion's hand snakes forward, looping through the librarian's stiff fingers, but she remains silent.

"You can either lose Metatron's memories of you, her intelligence, and everything that makes her your Metatron… or you could make her no longer your Metatron." He turns his face away. "I leave the decision to you. I do not trifle in the affairs of soul mates."

Maion buries her eyes into the one hand left unscathed. "Do whatever necessary."

She's braced for a burst of light, an earsplitting shriek, a spasm, anything – but the room remains quiet for a very many minutes. The only sound is the flutter of her own heartbeat and the steady rhythm of breath from the demon beside her.

"Don't cry." Lucius's voice is harsh with disapproval. "We're all done now. There's no need for tears to be shed."

"What?" Gasping, Maion rubs at her eyes with the back of her palm, blinking the remaining tears from her eyes and gulping down the lump in her throat. Leaping forward, she whispers Metatron's name urgently, crouched over the she-angel's now-peaceful face.

But, as a shadow falls over both of them, Maion's attention is dragged elsewhere.

"She's been through quite the ordeal." Lucius's voice is as impassive as ever, almost as if the more tender tones she'd witnessed earlier had never existed. "Be gentle with her when she awakens in a week or so. She's had her mind invaded and violated, and, considering her mind is her most valued asset in her own thoughts, it'll be quite a blow. The wrong move can push her into shock."

Staring up at him and his stone-cold expression, something happens upon Maion. "We never sealed the deal."

"Oops." One of his white eyebrows rises with frosty sarcasm. "If we'd sealed the deal and made it permanent, she would've never been yours again. Would you like me to fix that?"

He needs no response, which fits the situation quite well, considering that Maion has none to offer. Sticking his hands into his pockets, he strolls aimlessly towards the door, maintaining his dangerous aura despite the touch of kindness Maion had inadvertently discovered. Before he exits, however, he hangs in the doorway, glancing nonchalantly back.

"Metatron was incapacitated in the same area as the wolf, correct?" he calls with a tone of overruling boredom.

"Yes." Maion blinks. "The exact same place."

Lucius's lips twitch into a smile. "Here's a tip: _look into that_."

* * *

"The sunrise is going to be beautiful, Bree-aw'n," Audiat whispers, nuzzling against his warm chest. "You'll see sometime. I realized I couldn't watch the dawn's triumph from my balcony, which was weird, because that's what they're for, so I did the next best thing. My glass windows stream the sun through them."

After another moment of silence, Audiat laughs. "You were so worried when I first got into stained glass, remember? Always hanging over my shoulder, neglecting your duties, making sure there wasn't a single fragment of glass left on the ground for me to step on. That was when you were ridiculously overprotective. You got better, though, and I began to understand that you were so nitpicky about that because you cared."

Audiat pauses. "I wonder if we'll go through another overprotective stage? That's okay with me, Bree-aw'. I'm not going to let you move anywhere without mountains of bubble wrap for months, anyway, so you might as well return the favor.

"You're so much bigger now, too." Audiat blinks repeatedly. "Just the Nephilim form, though. You're…" Carefully, Audiat props herself up on one elbow, studying him. "You're exactly how I remembered you. Oh, my, I'm acting creepy, aren't I?" Audiat laughs nervously, sinking back onto the bed, blushing. "You're asleep. You can't hear a word I'm saying. And here I am, ogling at you… I'll go… do something else…"

Reluctance pools in her heart, forming a cold stone in the pit of her stomach. Brushing her knuckles against his cheek, gentler than a blade of grass, she whispers a tentative farewell to him. But, as she begins to peel back the thick covers warming Bryon's feverish body and inches out of it, two things happen simultaneously – a cold, cold wind sweeps through the apartment, swirling the curtains and reminding Audiat of the phantom that'd crept outside her door and bared its teeth in warning, and Bryon cries out in his sleep.

Turning back with a throb of her heart, Audiat turns to see that his eyes had split wide open – and though the nasty glaze hasn't yet settled over his eyes, it will most assuredly be quick to seal over the sightless bronze pupils. His haggard breathing only tugs her heartstrings more.

"Oh, so you'll go through a needy phase?" Audiat chides playfully. She pauses guiltily, slipping back beneath the covers. "Okay, okay, I'll admit, I couldn't last more than a few seconds outside of the blankets, but that's different. Tomorrow, I'll go check in with Penryn. Won't that be great? I'm so excited, but she also scares me. My god, I have no idea what to do around my own niece…"

Audiat falls silent as, for the first time, as Bryon's eyes gradually droop shut, his head twists towards her. Her breath catches in her throat as his forehead gently presses against her shoulder – nothing more, nothing less than a simple touch. In Audiat's eyes, it's nothing short of the most intimate of gestures.

* * *

A shadow looms over the sleeping Uriel.

"Did you really think that killing her would stop your fate?" whispers the shadow. "You're a smart angel, as smart as they come, but what you've done is stupid. It's like shearing off a single ray of sunlight and saying you've thrust the world into darkness.

"Let this sink into your dreams, Feathers. She was perfectly harmless until that blade cut her head from her body. Anything that happens from this point onwards to you will be nothing but your own fault. She's heard Raphael talking, speaking, blaming you for her anguished… he noticed, that idiot, and he brought you to my attention… and hers…"

A cold, emotionless laugh echoes through the chamber.

"People call me sadistic. Your agony will be a thousand times worse than Gabriel's. She will carve out a hollow in your chest and drive you around like a meat suit. She will twist the strings of your puppet together and make you dance. She will dangle everything you love in front of you before cleverly snatching it back and mangling your story in the worst way possible."

The shadow grows even closer to Uriel's ear.

"Don't you ever, ever try to fight your fate again. Listen to me. If you push against destiny, she'll snap you back like a rubber band and give you a worse end than before. I should know. Take your doom calmly and trudge onwards to oblivion. Oblivion is so much better than what happens if you continue."

"And what would that be?" whispers the archangel, opening his eyes to the shadow.

"Hell." Cruelly, the shadow's lips perk. "She knows every trick in the book to make you feel pain. I learned how to play my cards from that one. You've made her your enemy now. There's nothing left to do but accept it. Be content with your life. Live it fully. Because when she snaps her whip… you will become nothing more than a nightmare in the eyes of all those you love."

"And why would you warn me of this, Son of Satan?" the archangel purrs, grinning nastily up at the shadow before the moon.

"You _fool_. It's out of pity."

* * *

**I dropped a huge clue in this chapter. Good luck spotting it, though, since there's a lot going on between the lines.**

**We're going to hit 400 reviews soon, which is just... crazy. You do realize this isn't that good a fanfiction, right?**

**POLL: Lucius, seemingly immortal in attitude, evidently isn't. He ages just like anyone else, though with a speed seemingly slower than Bryon. Estimates for an approximate maturity of our little demon?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	55. Chapter Fifty-Four

**Chapter Fifty Four**

"Penryn!" Hugo's melodramatic moan wakes me only slightly – it's him clambering over the bed towards me that does most of the work. "Penryn! The sun's awake! Tumblr is asleep! The time is now!"

"Hugo!" I groan, burying my face into the pillow. "It's… dawn. Go away for another hour, _please_."

"Look, honey bunches," Hugo squawks, planting his ass on my pillow and making himself comfortable, "I'm not real negotiable about this, because you stole the bed from Bay and I, so we had to find somewhere else to get it on."

"Hugo!" Bay calls from elsewhere in a whispery voice, sounding horrified.

"Oh, you know it yourself," Hugo scolds. "And Penryn's a big girl. She can handle it. Besides, Bay, do straight guys ever keep their traps shut? No, they don't, so why should I? After all, I've got the most beautiful partner of them all."

"Hugo…" With only a crescent of my vision, I watch Bay sink onto the couch, his cheeks considerably redder than usual.

"Oh, stop being so self-conscious," Hugo harrumphs. "You're distracting me with your sexiness! Oi, Penryn, get up. I've got coffee with a Starbucks blend – you can either drink it or have it poured all over your head."

"Fine, fine," I grumble, pushing myself up on sore muscles, reluctantly creeping from the warm swaddles of comforters that'd warded against the winter chill the few hours I'd been able to sleep. Stretching, I yawn, "The hell is so important to you, anyway?"

"Well, you see," chats Hugo excitedly, flipping open the lid to his laptop, "last night you seemed pretty freaked out even before Pigeon-Bat came along and fucked everything up again. Surprise. So after Paige got situated, I sent out a distress call on Tumblr for your benefit – and the good bloggers responded. There's nothing greater than memes in bed. Plus, Starbucks. BAY! GET PENRYN HER STARBUCKS!"

He clicks up a delightfully blue website as Bay plods good-naturedly around in my periphery. I cock my head to one side, not fully understanding the excitement stirring in Hugo's goofy little brain.

"Wait…" I scrunch my eyebrows together. "You told the internet about me and my problems? …Why?"

"Because you needed to be cheered up," Hugo sighs, as if it's terribly obvious. "You're a celebrity now, Penryn. You're a _princess_." He bats his eyelashes at me, grinning from ear to ear. "Everyone wants to please a _princess_. Come, now, look at all this hype about you. _You_."

"Because I'm a princess?" I mutter, rolling my eyes.

"Because you're a heart in need." Hugo grins wider. "Oh, who am I kidding? Because of Raffryn. Just take it. Look at this shit. You are one loved little girl."

He shoves the laptop onto my lap, cheerfully resting his chin on my shoulder to look on with me. Hesitantly, my fingers move to the touchpad, and I scroll through the world Tumblr has to offer. Bearing a steaming coffee, Bay kneels curiously beside me, his dark eyes considerably brightened by the grey light piercing through the window drapes.

After a moment, he comments, "Hugo, this is a weird site."

And it reminds me over and over again why I never truly indulged in this whole Tumblr thing. I scroll through captioned gifs, polite poems ending in death, dark humor jokes, smiling faces of a thousand colors, more art of Bryon in flower crowns than I can count, and several extremely detailed Raffe pinup posters I feel uncomfortable just looking at, never mind Hugo hanging on my shoulder and making every lewd comment he knows.

"He's got a rose this time!" Hugo gasps, pointing at the most recent to the Raffe set. "Holding it in his mouth like a certain Spanish gentleman. Scroll down… oh, God, he's got no pants, keep scrolling!"

"Is this a pornography site?" Bay wonders, sounding troubled. "Why do you spend so much time on here, Hugo?"

"Bay, please." Against my shoulder, Hugo makes an exasperated noise in the back of his throat. "I go on this site for things like that."

He points towards yet another drawing of Bryon in a flower crown, except, this time, he's watching a crowned Hugo and a tiaraless Bay laugh together, arms intertwined. In the next picture, he's kneeling before Bay with a flower crown held up in offering, saying, "You are worthy."

"That's a good reason to be on the site, if you're Hugo," I conclude. "For every adorable thing, though, there's a Satan worshipper. Or someone that takes some rights movement and shoves it in your face at every possible moment. You seriously can't win on Tumblr."

"Mmm, true," Hugo acknowledges, "those bloggers are always a little irritating. I think it's worth the risk, but obviously, not all are daredevils. Did you know that Lucius has got his own fan base? It underwent a serious growth overnight with the apocalypse. Oh, look, there's a post about it! Click!"

Skeptically, I click onto the video link – and it's worth my while. The words _What Lucius Fans Think of his Childhood_ appear on the screen, followed by a looped gif of flower-crown-Bryon and flower-crown-Lucius dancing side by side to cheerful, happy music. Next appears the title _What Lucius was Probably Actually Like. _"When I was in the third grade…" Some female voice sniffs as an animated Lucius rubs at his nose. "People treated me like a criminal… BECAUSE I KILLED SOMEBODY!"

It's awful, the gif of a tiny, angry Lucius stabbing an only somewhat-startled Bryon repeatedly in the chest, but I can't help but laugh at Hugo's demonic cackle.

"That's terrible," Bay grunts, furrowing his brow. "That still doesn't convince me."

"Oh, well, too bad." Hugo shrugs indifferently. "Go back to the main site, Penryn, I think there's another sexy Raffe beneath it…"

This time, as we scroll past the archangel who yet again is lacking sufficient coverage, his backside only hidden by his wings, Bay lunges forward and places a hand over Hugo's eyes. Grinning, the boy doesn't protest one bit, seeming delighted rather than annoyed.

"Ass shot or ab shot, Penny Poo?" Hugo wonders against Bay's hand.

"Ass shot," Bay rumbles.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Hugo's voice grows almost territorial. "I will cover up _your_ eyes, mister!"

Onwards we continue, purging through a sudden flow of adorable Audyon, several of the drawings including Hugo, Paige and I – one stands out in particular, of Paige sleeping on Bryon's chest, Audiat hanging upside like a bat from the rafters, me sprawled out across the floor, and the light of Hugo's computer lighting up his face and everyone else around him. As we venture further down the dashboard, Bay's chest begins to rumble with laughter at a post I find remotely troubling.

"Oh my god," I whisper, cupping a hand over my mouth.

"It's the exact same bitch face," Hugo whispers in awe.

The first string of memes is a bunch of pictures that look like they'd been taken at one of Lucius's dad's meetings. The demon's expressions are all flat, but they range from bored to pissed to done with life. Perfect bitch face. Perfect, impassive bitch face. Captions like, "Oh my god I hate my life", "Did that bitch really just say that", "That scarf with that shirt?", and "Kill me now" all loom beneath his face.

Further down is first an exclamation of surprise from another blogger, and a chain of captionless photos of Emilio… with the exact same bitch face.

"That's creepy," I whisper, looking at the compared pictures at the bottom. "…Why do they look exactly the same? It's not like… like they've got a similar face or anything, but the expression is just…"

"How peculiar," Bay muses, smiling at the screen. "It adds a whole new twist on Lucius's respect for Emilio, doesn't it?"

"What are you talking about, big teddy bear?" Hugo chuckles, his chin grinding into my shoulder as he shakes his head.

"I just noticed last night that Lucius would always lift his head when Emilio would speak, that he watched Emilio rather than Raffe or even Theobella when threats were issued." Bay shrugs. "I'm not really sure why. Just something that I noticed."

"Huh." Hugo purses his lips. "You notice strange stuff, Baymobile. And – _Penryn you scroll that motherfucker down._"

Frightened by his almost demonic change in voices, I do as he says, to find a strangely drawn Raffe staring at me – his eyes twinkle, lively and somehow realer than the rest of his pencil-drawn figure. Another oddity is that it only seems to be half of Raffe – though he sits in a chair, he's not really sitting, as his body seems to be cut off at the hips. In his hands, he clutches a piece of paper reading: "Hello Penryn! I hear you've been feeling under the weather!"

In the next frame, his radiant grin turns sweeter, sappier. "I couldn't let you go without saying this, because, well…" Scrolling down, I reach another frame, this one of Raffe casting his gaze downwards, blushing like a high-schooler with a crush, scratching at his neck. "I'll never be able to say it to my version of you." Growing more brave in the next picture, he smiles broadly again. "And that version of me will never be able to say it there, either, so I might as well say that I'd never hurt you."

"Awwww," Hugo coos. "The fact that he's the Mermaid AU makes this so much better."

Next picture, he smiles warmly, eyes almost filled with life. "You're my Daughter of Man. I love you. I always will. Even if I act like a jackass, there's probably a reason behind it."

The following one makes me laugh out loud, despite the warming glow in my heart. "…Probably," the card reads, accompanied by another blushing Raffe torso.

"So don't be sad. Don't cry or mope or wail. Because even if that guy's an asshole…" The next frame warms my heart even further. "I'll always love you!"

A moving image of him skipping away on two arms instead of legs follows, looking so absolutely absurd it ruins my tingly glow with the ugly sort of laughter it provokes.

"What the hell?" I choke out through guffaws, rubbing away tears. "Who the actual…? What…?"

"Okay, okay, long story." Hugo presses a hand down on the shoulder not already holding his head to calm my giggles. "A trite thing to do in fandoms is to make the characters into mermaids, right? And so that happened in real life fandoms." His fingers flurry over the keyboard, searching Tumblr's infinite resources for a new topic. "And then this genius person realized that in that AU world, instead of getting his wings chopped off, Raffe would've gotten his tail chopped off, and made this brilliant post."

It's two pictures in a row; the first is of me pushing legless Raffe around in Paige's wheelchair, him with his arms crossed over his bare chest and his lips stuck out in a pout, and me rolling my eyes in exasperation. The second is of Raffe and I navigating through a crowd of merpeople using one of the little propeller things that scuba divers have, me holding onto his shoulders and, for the most part, hiding where duct tape attaches a limp fish tail to his torso stump. A speech bubble from Raffe says, "It's the newest fashion at the aerie," which isn't exactly the way I remembered it, but close enough. Obviously, he's referring to all the he-angels with seashell bras.

"Wow." I cock an eyebrow. "You know what? At least it's not a pinup of Raffe. So this struck up a movement?"

"Like you wouldn't believe." Hugo scrolls through fanfictions and fanart alike. Pictures of Raffe sitting on a stool to look some weird man I suppose is Obi in the eye, of me holding him like a puppy as he swings fists and proclaims himself as mighty Wrath of God, of a shark tail emerging from the place a fish tail belongs, of him sitting beside a Scruffy fish and lovingly straightening the scales on an admittedly beautiful but probably quite smelly fish tail, of him perched on my shoulders as we run from low demons, and of more pictures of him put-putting along on the little diver thing with an expression of utter focus.

"Here, look at this gif!" Hugo cries, hovering the mouse above one of a tailed Audiat linking hands with a disgruntled Raffe and spinning him around in your typical white girl fashion. Each and every time, Raffe's terrified expression as she releases him with a torrent of bubbles grows funnier.

My favorite out of all the mermaid Raffes is a set of gifs of various ways Raffe could walk, all of them containing awkward movements partnered with extremely focused faces and flexing biceps, titled things like, "The Eternal Handstand," "Horror Movie Zombie," "Penguin Waddle," "The Transportation Worm," "Moving Push-ups," "Shut up Penryn I Know What I'm Doing," and "Look Michael No Hands!"

"Why do you find such pleasure in this site, Hugo?" Bay wonders, utterly perplexed, for the millionth time. "At least there are no more nudes of the archangel, but – oh, I spoke too soon, what's this?"

It's another one of the comic things with shirtless Raffe drawing giving me a pickup line: "Hey baby, are you my enemy? Cause tonight, all you'll be saying is 'Please have mercy.'"

Ruining it almost immediately in the next set of frames are Dee-Dum, leaning on his shoulders, reminding the half Raffe that he's rather lacking in essential male anatomy.

Beneath that post, another punch in the feels awaits.

"Oh, man…" Hugo's mouse hovers over a link in a masterpost after reading the title. "Damn. That hits me hard in the nostalgia. Remember that, Bay? That little musical thing?"

Bay nods wordlessly.

"What?" I wonder, glancing from boy to demon curiously. "What musical thing?"

"Better days, that's what." Hugo shakes his head, sighing heavily. "Geez. See, back way ol' when, the Nephilim were ridiculously cheerful. Like, you have no idea. Santa's elves level of cheerful. My Little Pony level of cheerful. The few army squads that assembled would sing musical numbers together to help build camaraderie; that's how cheery. This was a filmed one, a 'Stick to the Status Quo' little number poking fun at the angelic rules, back in the days when Emilio was just a kid."

"His elite group, if I remember correctly," Bay rumbles, voice gravelly with emotion. "Each and every one of them hand-selected by Bryon himself. Each and every one of them took the place of Emilio's father. They're almost all dead or too gone to attempt to revive."

"They all just deteriorated, didn't they?" Hugo sadly sighs. "After Femi was promoted, lost all its heart. Arabella with her teenage pregnancy, Daine being caught up in that and then reverting to drugs to escape his depression, Auréle's suicide, Miguel with his drinking problems – no one except Emilio has really survived, and that's because he had to tend his sweetheart's cancer back in Spain, and got stuck there because she was too fragile. _Jesus_. That makes me _sad_."

"They used to be the best of the best," Bay agrees sadly, his eyes pooling with emotion. "People wonder why it's hard to go on for eternity. You see things like this happen to good people singing puny songs from Disney movies together. And after all that's happened to Daine… he didn't escape it at all."

"Yeah." Hugo nudges Penryn with his elbow. "You hear about that, or should I recap?"

As I shake my head, Hugo exhales grimly.

"When he received the news of Ogden's betrayal, he apparently scared one of his kids half to death and then hit the bar pretty hard. Being leader of that town, he could boss around the bartender and get as many shots as he wanted. However, as he was doing so, his wife went into labor. Nephilim babies are weird, they're much more difficult than normal babies and need more experienced staff to deliver them, but he was so wasted when he came home he ignored the one crappy nurse he didn't send off to the battles and passed out in the front hallway. The crappy nurse did something wrong, I don't know, I'm not a doctor, but his wife died in childbirth."

"Oh my god," I whisper in horror.

"And to add to that," Bay murmurs sullenly, "the baby almost died, too, when the nurse fainted after realizing her failure and dropped it on the stone floor. That didn't kill it, though the spine's break did paralyze it, so at least it's something. But the boys had run away out of fear of their father, so they couldn't help. We still have no clue where they are."

"Sounds like a day of tragedy," Audiat calls wistfully, her distorted voice making me jump and spill a bit of coffee on my shirt. "Seems no one had a good day."

She pulls a feather from her bushy curls as she adjusts herself on the balcony, smiling in greeting, waving at us. Bay promptly rises and throws open the balcony doors, causing Hugo to hiss and slip beneath the covers beside me, most likely in a premeditated response to the cold air that comes billowing forth. Squealing with joy, Audiat tumbles in more than she walks, bouncing her way over to my bedside.

"I thought you were trying to cheer Penryn up, Hugo!" Audiat laughs, easily regaining her bubbly attitude. "How is swapping depressing tales cheering anyone up?"

"Sorry, Audiat." Hugo grins at her from his cove in the covers. "She asked, and I'm all one for a little gossip."

"No gossiping about people's tragedies!" Audiat gasps in horror, her red eyes going wide. Her tiny hands clutch the tips of my fingers, bringing them to her chest and staring urgently down at me. "Don't let him influence you! Daine is a good man, I know it! And now his world is collapsing and if everyone is gossiping about it behind his back…"

"He'll go crazy," Emilio sums up, folding his wings by his side, feathers turned rosy by the light of morning. He slips a green bubble jacket over his black leather armor to hide his wings, and looks mildly adorable despite his discomfort. "Try to avoid it."

"Hey, Audiat." I smile at her, utterly uncertain how to react to her finger-holding. "Hey, Emilio. Where have you guys been?"

"I was upstairs with Bryon!" Audiat tells me cheerfully, dropping my hands and twirling around to Emilio. "He brought your sister down to breakfast. Don't worry about her, Paige is perfectly fine. She's upstairs in my apartment with – what were their names?"

"Jersey and Koby," Emilio murmurs, his expressive, almond-shaped eyes holding a respectful sheen as he regards the overexcited she-angel. "Jersey was more than happy to babysit. Daine, the one you were so pleased to gossip about, Hugo, is up there as well. After hearing about the creepy Jesus lizard, he refuses to leave Bryon's side."

After a moment of evident confusion, Hugo buries his face in his hand, turning his guffaws into stifled snorts. "_What_ did you call Theobella?"

"You're all a bunch of meanies," Audiat decrees. Slipping a bag off of her shoulders, she holds it out to be, smiling beatifically. "Penryn, I got you clothes! They should all be your size – plus I fixed the leather jacket so it fits you better, too! What do you think? Appropriate?"

Startling me, I hear her voice in my mind – _I hope you don't mind, but I briefly screened through a bit of your past, pre-apocalypse, to see fashion and clothing sizes! Using our little secret? I'm sorry if I invaded any privacy!_

Instead of answering her mental question, I take the bag in my hands and beam approvingly at her, the soft fabric of cotton a relief to my tired hands. "Thanks, Audiat, you shouldn't have. Any reason for this sudden gift?"

"Well, first off, you needed something other than that maid's dress." Audiat cocks one eyebrow. "I will not have my niece walking around like an anime slut. And secondly, your other pair of clothes needed a wash. Last but certainly not least, you shouldn't have just one outfit." Audiat grins. "It's your apocalypse, not your end of days."

Audiat quite efficiently shoos off Bay and Hugo, coaxing them out of their apartment with promises of some angel by the name of Cassandra making cheesecake on another story – Emilio is more stubborn, causing Audiat's temper to snap and her to go on a little rampant about him needing to respect my privacy. After being scolded about how it was "downright perverted" for him to refuse to leave the room when a teenage girl was undressing, he quickly exited, something akin to a blush blooming across his cheeks.

"That boy!" Audiat huffs loudly. "He means well, he truly does, but ever since…" She falls silent, taking a sudden interest in the ceiling. "Well, he's been clingy, almost, with his job. I hope you don't mind."

"Not really." I shrug, slipping on the t-shirt she'd gotten me, somehow with the words MY OTHER CAR IS AN ARCHANGEL printed across the front. "He's a bit proud. Got his nose in the air a lot. Conventional, too. But I like him."

"He's got heart," Audiat summarizes, "and that's all that really matters, doesn't it? I'd bet every feather I have that he'd never lie, either. Keep him around, Penryn, especially since the Nephilim politics are corrupted by Ogden. He'll look out for any sketchy guys after you, too, and chase them off."

"I used to have one of those friends." I shrug. "I always thought he was a bit annoying, frankly, but he served his purpose, I guess."

Audiat beams, dancing around Hugo's apartment and regarding all of his drawings with a warm, motherly glow. "Well," she says to me, "it's better than having a best guy friend that's frustrated with his friendzoned position. I haven't actually had one – most guy friends of mine are not actually friends – but I hear it's awful."

Perhaps it's this I should find comfort in – no jealous freaks waiting around the corner. "Yeah, at least with Emilio, I won't ever have to worry about him being a friendzoned jerk. He's too old and dignified for – God, that sounds weird. I mean, he's too old for me, and his dignity'd never let him do anything like that."

Audiat smiles sadly over the edge of one of Hugo's drawings, a wistful sheen entering her warm maroon eyes. "Also because he's lost the one he cares about most in the world. So sad! I don't think he'll ever truly love again, poor guy."

Tugging on the snug-fitting sweatpants she'd brought for me, I glance her direction in confusion, trying to understand what exactly she speaks of. "…You mean with his sister?"

Audiat's brow scrunches, and she looks up from the diagram of bird wing she'd been inspecting. "Sister? He has a sister? No, I was talking about his girlfriend… what happened with his sister?"

"Umm…" I pull the leather jacket over my shoulders, enjoying the tickle of the soft inner fabric against the back of my neck. "You know about what happened with the… the things angels were doing to… you know…"

"Children." Audiat's expression softens, and she nods knowingly, her eyes as easy to sink into as Bryon's. "Yes, there were some… awful things going on in aeries that… I was just horrified to learn about. Do you mean that his sister…?" Her eyes widen, and a hand flies to her mouth.

"Yeah…" I lower my gaze to the floor. "She was one of the first, apparently, before Paige. He tore through an entire aerie to get to her. And then he flew from Spain to America to get Daine's treatment. She died before he reached him, though, and he handed Daine a dead body."

Audiat is quiet for a long time. "…That's probably why he's so protective of you and Paige. Oh, see, this is why I can't hate anybody!" She moans and runs her fingers through her hair, causing the clusters of curls to rumple and fuzz. "They act standoffish and then they have these really tragic backstories and it just makes my heart break!"

"But what about his girlfriend?" I press with latent reluctance, quietly dreading the answer. "I thought she was safe back at Spain, but they'd never be reunited again."

Audiat rubs at her forehead. "Well, yes, that was the case, until his town was attacked by – you guessed it – angels. Most of the people he grew up around died in the attack, and no one was sure what'd happened to the one he'd loved, a woman named Sofia. He held onto the hope that she'd survived and had escaped into the national forest that was nearby or something. A day or two before Ogden betrayed Bryon, however, her corpse was discovered, which means Emilio already had that on his conscious when he got the news."

"Do I even want to know what happened to her?" I mumble, growing tired of the heavy ache in my heart and the languor pulling at my limbs, sick of the grief that pulls at a heart.

"You need to understand his pain," Audiat insists, smiling in understanding, as if she, too, grows weary of the misery. "It hadn't been the angels that'd killed her at all. It'd been the same gang he'd been in as a child. They… they raped her to death, Penryn." She hugs herself tightly, eyes downcast. "Emilio was… he was… he heartbroken. He showed me the ring he'd had Ogden forge for her, showed me the teal gems he'd set around the diamond because the ribbon for the cancer she survived was teal. I never want to see him so weak ever again."

I open my lips – but what does one respond to that with? What could possibly summarize the turmoil of emotion in my gut, the painful pinch in my heart? Instead of uttering words that to not capture my agony, I shut my mouth, realizing that Audiat already knows what I feel.

Staring down at my hands, I ponder just how much everyone I know has been screwed with – for some reason, I'd selfishly simply assumed that, because of Sercem Domu's overall serene, undisturbed manner, the Nephilim had escaped the apocalypse relatively unscathed – now, I wonder just how many terrible stories I've missed out on hearing.

"But enough of that!" Audiat trills, waving her hands as if batting maudlin thoughts aside. "How do you like your clothes? Did I pick everything out alright? Is the bra…?"

Swallowing my own pile of mush, I nod, cutting her off. "Everything's fine, Audiat, thanks. The t-shirt is especially pretty cool, gotta say. Since you're treating me, I take it you're going to give me a girl's day like you promised?"

"Well, yes!" Audiat once bounces on her toes, amusingly excited. "If that's alright with you! We can do whatever you like – if you want, we could do nothing at all! It's up to you."

"Well…" I chew on my lip, taking a hesitant step forward on sleepy legs as I do so. "I don't know. What do you want to do?"

"Oh…" Audiat tilts her head to one side, her cherry eyes watching me shake the pins and needles from my feet. "You know, I actually didn't think of that. What if we head downstairs to the café type thing and talk? I'd like to talk."

"Then we can decide where to go from there." Smiling, I attempt to calm the nerves of the she-angel as they make themselves evident in her twitching demeanor. "Alright. I definitely do have some questions that only you can answer."

"Really?" Eyes alight with ebullience, Audiat taps her petite toes together, folding her arms behind her back with a smile that could melt glaciers. "Does it have to do with the wolf upstairs?"

"The wolf up – oh, I get it." Smothering a smile, I mull over the fact that this goofiness of Audiat's is probably exactly why Bryon fell in love with her. "Yeah, some of it."

"Good! Let's go!" Without waiting a second longer, Audiat flies out the door, her bare feet dancing over the floorboards like a cat's tiny paws.

Nothing of particular concern is spoken of beyond that point until we reach the café she'd spoken of – she tells Emilio off again for trying to accompany us, but when he informs her that he's actually not stalking me but rather going to the training grounds to meet up with a student, Audiat falls silent and doesn't speak much for the rest of the way. It makes a rather awkward flight downwards, but her chatter revs back to life once we reach our destination.

The cliché retro café is poorly designed when compared to other nooks and crannies throughout the she-aerie – then again, it's not quite so awfully thought out as Bay's hidden floor.

No walls separate it from the rest of the activity areas on the floor – towards the bottom of the Triangle, the halls had been admonished to allow for wide open spaces like this in all the room the center area had taken up. From this little corner, I can easily spy on everyone else around it – the fitness center, the armored dummies, and the half-empty dueling circles.

Emilio faces off with an unfamiliar boy in one of the circles. Judging by the easy yet merciless dance of Emilio's blades around the child and the brunette's bent up sword, I guess the he's getting trained just as I had.

The actual shop is run by a single dude that looks depressed with life. Clusters of random booths cling to the counter, with barely enough room to walk through. The cushions seem to be made with stones, and the entire area smells of sour creamer. Though perhaps the design had been presented as such so that she-angels would enjoy watching each other become sweaty as they exercised, the only other creature occupying the café is a rotund woman with more chins than I'd think possible in a world of man-eat-man.

"Sorry about the location!" Audiat sighs, settling into the uncomfortable chair opposite me. She hands me not coffee, as I don't want to dispel the taste of Starbucks, but a cheese pastry on a cheap plastic plate. "The men will start to trickle in once the sun rises a little bit more to get rid of their hangovers through violence, so I'd like to trickle out of here before then. Look, Titaniel's here already. Wow, look at that! Wonder what happened to him?"

Following her gaze, I watch the giant angel dance around one of the dummies, his swords crashing against the armor. Gashes arch up and down his biceps, unlike anything I've ever seen.

"Why does he have two angel swords?" I wonder in a hushed voice. "Is he just special?"

"That's how he became an archangel, actually." Audiat's voice is low, cautiously neutral. "He didn't like the way his commander was running things, so he ran a sword through him. And then, to add insult to injury, he claimed the old archangel's sword _forcefully_ and _forcefully_ took his place in heaven. Not. Fun."

"Yikes." Thoughtfully, I watch him dance around the dummy, utterly mutilating it as he does so. "Should we be talking with him around?"

Audiat cocks her head to one side, puffing out her lips. "He's focused as he can be, so it should be alright. I doubt he'll hear anything over the sound of his swords against those dummies and his own testosterone."

"If you say so," I mumble, stomach sickening as he effortlessly slices through another straw dummy, cleaved muscles rippling. "You know, I think it was Lucius that carved him up last night… Paige mentioned something about him getting angry at a guy with terrible eyes…"

"I heard about your predicament with Lucius." Audiat's eyes soften further. "How is that going?"

"I mean…" I trail off, sighing heavily as I gather the thoughts pirouetting through my mind. "He's an asshole, but he did heal Paige up, and, although he's been nothing but trouble, he usually doesn't _purposefully_ bother me. All I've got to do is stay away from Raffe."

"It could be worse," Audiat agrees, pursing her lips indifferently. "Now, at least, you know that Raffe's affections are genuine, and he doesn't just want to feel you up."

"Yeah…" The excellent flavor of the pastry doesn't truly occur to me as I mull over the topic. "With all that's going on, I can't help but wonder if it's a good thing, you know? Lucius did say that all he wanted to do was to get the angels off of Earth, and the only way to do that was through Raffe."

"…What's it like, with Raffe?" Audiat wonders curiously, setting her chin down upon the table, staring up like a raptured kitten. "I've always thought he's a jerk. King of jerks. Drunk king of jerks. But, evidently, no."

I watch her stir the coffee with a signature touch of awkwardness. "…I'm not sure, to be honest. It probably had something to do with his corny sense of archangel humor. He's just… different."

"It's cute." Audiat tilts her head to one side. "And do you think you can patch things up with him, even after…? After whatever it is that happened with Theobella?"

Another bite of the pastry disappears. "I don't know, Audiat. I have no idea. It's up to him, more than anything."

"That's fine." Audiat beams, graciously changing the subject. "I remember one time with your uncle, he disappeared without any warning. Turns out he was sleeping under a mountain the entire time – once I got past utter amazement, I grounded him for a month."

"You… grounded him?" I echo, baffled.

"That's right." Audiat nods seriously. "I stole all his exotic spices. He wasn't allowed to make tea for a month. That was the month I swear to God he almost went crazy. I caught him gnawing on cinnamon sticks more than once. He would nibble on tea leaf plants when he thought I wasn't looking."

Something is absurdly amusing about that. "That's adorable. Seriously adorable. …Can I ask you something? Was my uncle a goofball around you?"

"Oh, yes." Audiat smiles into her coffee. "Not at first, of course. At first, he was… _you know_. He was wise and stoically calm, a being that felt otherworldly, despite the fact that I'm older than him. It all started out with an addiction to hats. He saw me waddling around swathed in all sorts of clothing and I kept trying to find hats and then – he found them, and found a lot more. It was so cute. There is nothing better than the massive dragon you saw out there wearing a little cap."

"Oh, I know that addiction!" I grin, remembering his nitpicking over hats in the emporium during our day in Sercem Domu. "Are there any hats big enough for him when he's a dragon?"

Audiat shrugs. "No, but as long as he's got one scale hatted, he's happy. Back when it was safer for him to go large, he'd do it all the time, and always wanted a hat. I used to fall asleep on his belly after stargazing with him. He was like a sauna. The cold didn't stand a chance."

"Was Ogden around back then?" I wonder, furrowing my brow. "I mean, do you remember what he was like back then? …Did he ever seem like he was going to betray Bryon like he did?"

"I knew him." Audiat's voice hardens, and her hands clench around her coffee cup. "And we weren't on bad terms. I was always more close with Sariel, of course, but I respected Ogden as Bryon's second father even so. It seems my trust was placed in the wrong hands. Why are you bringing this up, Penryn? Did he do anything to harm you? Maybe to convert you?"

Slowly, I shake my head, peeling a flake of the cheese pastry from its skin. "He was always kind to me. I still don't understand why he did it."

"If I find out, I'll let you know," she mutters darkly, staring broodingly into her coffee, as if provides an answer for her. "Penryn, you'd better pray that nothing happens to your uncle or messes with his state of leadership. Ogden speaks better than a man with a tongue when it comes to persuasion, and he's very thorough. He'd have you killed, not only because you'd actually serve a big threat as Bryon's heir for those still loyal to the Youngs, but to infuriate Sariel and the rest of those that love you. Another reason to stick by Emilio; he's just itching to snap the traitor's neck after what he's done to my husband."

"Is Ogden really that bad a guy?" I glance over the edge of my pastry, not really wanting to know the answer.

"He's not a bad guy, but an ambitious one." A shrug sends Audiat's curls rippling. "It's not as bad as a madman like Uriel, at least, but his goal is to expose the entire Young family as monsters. He believes that you've lost your touch, and will do anything to show the rest of the Nephilim that. He will blackmail and he will plunder. In his eyes, the Nephilim are his children – and he will not let a weed poison his crop."

"Maybe Emilio should be more concerned with Paige, then." Anxiously, I glance across the open room and watch as the Spaniard grabs a fistful of the boy's brown hair and pulls him onto his feet. "I can fight back. She can't."

"Actually, no, Bryon's helping her with that." Looking at me through her white eyelashes, Audiat smiles slyly. "Did he tell you it was possible for a favored to compel their patron?"

My eyebrows shoot up. "He mentioned it once in the passing, I think. Wait. He's teaching my baby to call on the Devil's role model? Why?"

"Because the Devil's role model isn't actually all that bad." Audiat smile brightens. "He's loyal to a promise, at least, and if you bind him, he'll do as you say. He might do a little overkill, of course, and demolish a civilization, but it's not like Sunnyside Lunatic, who'll annihilate everything on Earth for no exact reason. Bryon always had the better patron…"

"That's reassuring, knowing that she's at least got something," I admit. "But I still think Emilio should be more focused on her than me. I mean, after all, she's a little girl, and Sariel's easily more attached to her."

Audiat finishes her coffee with a mewling sound of pleasure. "And because of that, Bryon's made sure she's under supervision, don't worry. He's a very capable man – he can protect her, you know, even in his sleepy state, so you can relax your guard slightly. As long as Bryon's around, you won't have anything to worry about."

I'm about to respond with something, reminding her that it's my duty to worry about my little sister, when a loud, thunderous outbreak of voices interrupts us both. The few she-angels that'd been jousting together back away nervously, allowing a clear view of both Emilio and Titaniel.

The shouts they usher are angered and thoughtless – they carry no true meaning other than exclamations of hatred. It seems that they're arguing over a demolished practiced dummy. Though Titaniel towers over Emilio, the Spaniard doesn't seem at all slighted, even with his neck craned back. I can't tell which of the two warriors I fear more.

"Oh, dear," Audiat sighs titteringly, standing up and casting a remorseful glance at her coffee. "I knew having them in the same room was going to start trouble. Stay behind me, Penryn."

It's not difficult for me to follow her orders, leaving behind the cheese pastry and staying safely in the rear of the petite she-angel. Many of the angels pass incredulous glances to Audiat as they scurry from the floor, escaping the archangel. The sable-haired boy Emilio had been training slinks off, his thinking most likely akin to mine – who wouldn't want to escape a pair of time bombs?

"Emilio, Titaniel!" Audiat snaps, her high, gentle voice not calming the tension, but if anything, adding to it – both of their heads snap towards her, both pairs of oval-shaped eyes narrowing in resentment.

"Find someone else to nag on," Titaniel growls, his voice gravelly and terrifying, holding none of the mellifluent harmonies I'd grown to expect.

"Don't tell her what to do," Emilio snarls, his accent butchered by the feral sound rumbling in his throat.

"Both of you, break it up," Audiat commands with an unfamiliar growl in her voice. "We don't need to cause a scene, and we certainly don't need to rip this place to smithereens."

Titaniel laughs, a slow, rumbling thing, devoid of any true emotion. His eyes are so utterly expressionless, they're almost unseeing, like a Greek statue. "It won't take more than a single strike for me to –"

"It will take a hell of a lot more," Audiat sighs tersely, pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. "Emilio, I saw those fists clench. If they stray from your side, I will make sure that they'll never stray anywhere but their mounts on my wall."

"Now, now," the archangel growls, playing a sadistic game almost as if he could feel pleasure, "don't make the little bitch have to punish you."

"Take that back!" Emilio snarls, thrusting his face into Titaniel's.

"Got a crush, monkey?" Titaniel sneers, his eyes betraying the cruel, emotionless intelligence egging the boy on rather than petty anger. "You could be beheaded for that, you know. Not that it'll be much of a loss. What's one more?"

Emilio's hands fly up to the blades at his back, and something in me twitches. As the silver arches curl over Emilio's shoulders and into his ready position, Titaniel reaches up and unsheathes his pair of swords, also equipped on a pair of back scabbards, identical to Emilio's. His blades, too, slice down into an offensive position. Seeing both men preparing for a duel reminds me that, although his skills are impressive, I can't see Emilio killing an archangel.

"Emilio, back down," I order him.

Chocolate brown eyes swing to me, shocked.

"Emilio." I stare at him, attempting to put the same stone mask over my emotions as Raffe. "I ordered you to back down."

His hesitation is agonizing, nearly as terrible as the conflict in his eyes. The desire to fight is so strong, his heart seems to sing with it. A tremble shakes the blades in his hands as the obedient soldier wars with his passionate attitude.

"Emilio."

He closes his eyes. Very, very slowly, he backs away from Titaniel, sheathing his swords as he does so. Though fury stiffens his back and keeps his lips drawn in a thin line, Emilio obeys his orders like a good warrior, falling in line behind me. A warm glow of pride heats my heart when he opens those eyes and gazes down at me with, instead of resentment as I'd expected, something I would only call pride.

"Weakling," Titaniel spits, brandishing his sword like a pointer towards Emilio. "Afraid I'll wipe the floor with you?"

"Titaniel," Audiat warns.

"Get out of the way."

I'm not utterly sure what happens. All I know is that between point A and point B, Audiat is a whirl of white and red, like a candy cane. Judging from Emilio's rapid blinking, he doesn't understand, either.

She now stands over him with a sneer of disgust curling her lip, watching as the archangel moans upon the floor, his otherwise blank eyes filled with a question I also wish to know the answer to. How had Audiat slammed him on the ground so quickly?

Audiat crouches in front of him, retaining none of her former bubbliness. "How did I do that, you're wondering. How could I do that? Little old me? Good question. If I can do that, imagine what this guy will be able to do. Now get the hell out of here, before I change my mind and crush your skull."

"Emilio, go find the kid you were training," I whisper to him, glancing back at his overly serene face. "Get back to it, alright? Sorry about this."

Emilio rolls his eyes and mouths, "Not your fault."

Without another word, he stalks off. I watch him go, studying the roll of his shoulders with each of his strides, wondering how comfortable it is for him with his wings hidden on the inside of his armor like that. The way he walks, the sound his feet hit the ground, the character in the square shoulders of his – the Emilio strut, I suppose I could call it. I smile, watching him go, glad to have diffused the situation without making an enemy out of the dangerous Nephilim.

"Don't touch me." Calm, bloodcurdlingly calm. I turn to see Titaniel rising to his feet, Audiat hovering awkwardly over him, as if her help had been refused. "Very well, Audiat, you win this round. Continue sipping your coffee and whisperingly discussing that Ogden character, and of Raffe's affections. I'm sure it's of no concern to me, is it, _Penryn_?"

His blue eyes flash for a moment, and I feel my breath leaving me as our gazes meet for a tantalizingly long stretch of time – his brilliant blue eyes are like diamonds. Though they themselves are large and capturing, I realize as my knees begin to feel weak, his eyes are almond shaped, and, had not all emotion been at a loss to him, I would've called them expressive – my knees feel weak at the loss of that tiny, essential component, my breathing becomes soft and airy.

He could snap me between his thumb and index if he wanted to. Without Pooky Bear, I have no defense against him. Even with Pooky Bear, he'd only find amusement in my death, like a cat playing with a mouse.

"Leave," Audiat instructs coolly, her cold, hard voice jarring me from the terrified stupor of a bird caught in a snake's gaze. "Get out of here, and don't come back. Breathe a word of this to anyone, and I will make sure that the demon from last night finishes his job."

And, upon her words, a slight tingle of courage returns to me. I'm not helpless to him. Even if I can't outfight him, there's more than that to a battlefield.

I watch, transfixed, as Titaniel reluctantly slips his swords back into their sheathes, his muscles flexing as he does so. With nothing more than a chuckle, he turns on heel, flexing his wings slightly. My heart drops to my shoes with recognition, but I can't quite place it.

His wings, though radiantly white, aren't brilliant and wide like Raffe's – they're cleverly built, lithe and lean. Though their slender shape isn't quite as magnificent, it's just as effective. I _know_ it is. I've seen wings like those in action, but not upon his back.

Titaniel walks off without another word. And, as his feet carry him to the hatch, I notice that he's got a strut I find vaguely familiar – not exact, not precise. But the motion is there, the same graceful twist of his steps. The moment those slender white wings carry him through the skylight and out of earshot, I turn to Audiat expectantly.

She meets my gaze curiously, as if wondering why I appear so freaked out. A silent question forms on her lips, mirrored in the furrow of her brow and the worry in her gaze.

I lean over to whisper into Audiat's ear, my voice trembling.

"What are we going to do?" I panic quietly. "Does he know too much?"

"He'll most likely report it to Uriel," Audiat sighs heavily, "which means he'll be onto you and you'll have to get rid of that marvelous shirt, but there's nothing Uriel can do to prove his reports. Titaniel's not quite trusted by the others for obvious reasons. No one wants a leader that's willing to throw all his troops away if it means a medal."

"Oh, okay." I release my tension in a curt exhale. "Doesn't he remind you of Emilio, though?"

Her gaze slips from mine, instead focused on the planes of Titaniel's back as he stalks off. "Don't let him hear you comparing the two."

My heart splutters, and my brow furrows as something happens on me out of chance. "…Who's Emilio's father, Audiat?"

Audiat casts one glance back at me, her red eyes saturated with emotion, her teeth biting nervously into her plump lower lip. After a moment, she sighs, and buries her face into her hands.

"It's why he gets so much respect, being the first son of an archangel in thousands of years," she says at last into the palms of her hands. "Like I said, Penryn, make sure you're not his clockwork beauty."

A load of bricks settles on my shoulders. In my shock, my eyes drift to the dummies – Titaniel's fighting style hadn't differed to much from Emilio's, based upon the same dance of blades. I open my mouth to question further, my eyes round, not understanding how or when this could've happened, but no sound comes out. Why had I not bothered to learn about Emilio's lack of a paternal figure before now?

"There he is now," Audiat notices, sounding somewhat confused, pointing to the stairwell Emilio had disappeared up. "Why does he look… oh, dear, this can't be good."

Even his footsteps sound urgent as he pounds through the room. The brown of his eyes seems duller than usual, as if darkened by the thought of whatever news he brings. His frown is deep, troubled. A trill of terror rings up my spine as I realize that even the swing of Titaniel's and Emilio's arms are the same.

"Audiat, Penryn." His gaze slices through the air like a razor blade. "I need to get the two of you to safety. Terror is spreading as I speak. The aerie is unsteady, and chaos is threatening to break. Before you protest, I _refuse_ to leave your side."

"What do you mean?" Audiat's surprise is tangible. "What? The aerie is unsteady? Like a _riot_?"

"Maybe." His façade cracks for a mere second, showing me how shaken he really is. "I just watched some servant get his head ripped off because he interrupted the he-angels during their panic. Someone will already have to explain to his mother why they were not there to protect him. I will not do the same to Bryon. Both of you, with me, now."

"What's happening?" I demand, digging my heels into the ground as he attempts to drag me towards the door. "What's going on?"

Emilio glances once back at me, his impassive gaze belittling. "Maion discovered the undecayed body of Gabriel stashed beneath one of the bushes in the library. The he-angels, of course, chose to respond to this in the _most logical_ way possible, so the sooner we leave, the better…"

"Gabriel?" Audiat repeats, incredulous. "How did he get under there? I mean, he's always had a bad sense of direction, but this is a new low, even for him..."

"Audiat," Emilio sighs tensely, dragging both of us towards the stairs, "I _sincerely_ doubt he chose to bury himself under that bush."

As Emilio drags me from the room, I notice that my pastry has been devoured, though I don't recall finishing it. In my confusion, my gaze skips over the small dragon curled around the coffee merchant's neck, and the silent plea in his eyes.

* * *

"Don't touch him."

Daine's chin lifts from his chest, his eyes opening and all whims of slumber dispelled. The two idiots that'd been laughing and playing discordant notes on the Queen's black, glossy piano silence with exchanged shushes. The air thickens like butter as eyes all find their way to the once-sleeping leader.

And, for once, Bryon's eyes are shut. His face is tranquil. Though the relaxation might be a comfort in any other situation, for some deep, primal reason, it isn't for Daine. In fact, it only seems more dangerous than the way he'd been before.

"Don't touch him." Bryon's head calmly moves towards Daine, as if to better center his words. "Do you hear me, child? Don't touch him."

"…Sir?" Daine questions, moments before Bryon collapses into fits of wild shrieks, his eyes splaying wide. As he writhes, throwing fists and ripping at his bandages, only the sounds of his wretched chanting can be heard over his shrieks.

"I TOLD YOU, I TOLD YOU, I TOLD YOU!"

"Told us what?" one of the men cries, rattled, collapsing onto the piano with a discordant howl of the keys.

"NOT TO TOUCH HIM!"

Just as Daine draws the conclusion that this is worst thing to happen yet, Bryon's eyes flutter shut then quickly open again. His pulse thunders back to life with a familiar cadence. With a tremendous inhale, his arms fall from their fits, and his face loses its nonsensical paranoia, instead replaced by horror.

For a moment, Daine believes that, instead of bronze, one of his King's eyes burns blue – but it fades so quickly that he convinces himself it must've been a trick of the blue sky above playing over the reflective surface.

Gasping as if he'd been ripped from a trance, Bryon's eyes turn to his men, agony shimmering there. A single tear slips from one, tracing over the bridge of his nose on its downward descent. He whispers a single, defeated statement that causes Daine's spine to prickle.

"It was me."

* * *

**Seriously, though, if that Mermaid AU does not show up on this site I might honest to God go bat shit crazy. **

**Hope all those in the USA had a good Gobble Gobble Day.**

**POLL: Gabriel. Remember him? Thoughts on his body's appearance?**

**Ciao,**

**~ wolfluvermh**


	56. Chapter Fifty Five

**Chapter Fifty Five**

"You've got such gall, coming here, of all places," calls the drawling voice of Lucius, echoing throughout the ornately furnished chapel. With the frost of his malicious wit and bitter presence, the air grows colder, becoming frigid by mere proximity to a heart so cold. "The rest of the aerie is in the midst of a crisis. Shouldn't you be comforting and calming? Is that not your purpose in this world?"

Bryon's hands clench tighter around his staff, the familiar wood like a child's favorite blanket in his grip. Tranquil is the manner in which he turns his head to look at the intrusion upon his peaceful silence. With one great, wise eye, he regards the shadowy figure leaning in the doorway, bronze so steadily trained upon snowy white, uncertain whether to greet the boy with the tempting irritation or his usual tolerance.

"Hello, Lucius." Choosing tolerance, Bryon turns back to the stained glass murals, shutting his eyes and bowing his head. "I need some time for reflection. Everyone does, every now and then."

"Why?" The sound of Lucius's shoes clopping down the stairs into the chapel causes Bryon to clench his teeth, irritation threatening to overtake his control. "Just remembered you're the reason we're in this mess? I wouldn't worry too much about that, you were just possessed. I'd feel guiltier about how you've driven others into her path."

Bryon is silent for a moment, mulling over the demon's words with a heavy heart. "There is a quote from the human's bible I would like for you to recall, Lucius. 'When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his glorious throne. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people from one another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.' What does that mean to you?"

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me what it means to you."

Sighing wearily, Bryon opens his eyes, staring up at the stained glass before him. "You're right. In the same passage, it discusses the goats being punished, and the sheep being rewarded. The angels are here, upon the Earth. You and I both know there's no Son of Man – but the one the passage refers to is here as well. I simply try to aid them on their journey to become 'sheep', so to speak."

"I suppose I see your logic, seeing Gabriel's little condition." Lucius drifts over to the altar, playing as if he were only marginally interested. "But to give your followers false hope like that… it's truly cruel."

"The belief in God is not what I primarily teach my subjects." Bryon bows his head lower. "I teach them that you can pray to the Lord every night and still be the worst of people. I have tried to relay benevolence rather than the adamant belief in the man upstairs. I do what I can."

Lucius chuckles, remaining silent for several long moments. "And now, your luck is running out, Lord of the Petunias. You've done all you can. Time has come, as they say. So here you are, praying to the God that's condemned you, begging to escape punishment."

Rising on legs stiffened by his kneel, Bryon turns to Lucius, laughing gently. "If I didn't know you better, I'd call that pity in your voice. However, I do, and I can't help but worry about you and that sliver of humanity left in you. The angels are angry, you realize. They will go after whatever they chose to blame for the death of their leader. Just when we thought the carnage was coming to an end, too…"

"That's no concern of mine." Lucius waves a hand. "You're going to need a better hand to convince me into joining the game in your place."

"I don't have to convince you," Bryon chuckles. "I need to remind you why you should fight. You might avoid the fact, Lucius, might try to pretend you have no ties to anyone but yourself. Remember, you are part human too. You were born of a Nephilim mother, and her blood still pounds through you. Sometimes I wonder if you even remember what it was like to be an ordinary child. The joy in the simplicity of it."

"I remember feeling useless as my mother had her neck snapped." Lucius pulls a deck of cards from his pocket and begins to toy with it, as if relieving his nerves through them. "The uselessness, I do not like. They can't even help themselves, Bryon – why should I help them?"

"You've got to figure that out for yourself." Bryon briefly ponders giving the boy a hug, before swiftly dismissing the thought. "But the time has come for you to make your mark in history. How do you want people to remember you? As a simple villain or something more? Everyone has a defining moment, boy. It's time for you to look at yourself and think – who are you? Where will you go from here? What will your destiny be? Look at yourself and all you could be, then decide – man, monster, or saint?"

* * *

"Oh, my," Audiat coos, skipping into the room, "it is Gabriel! Well, where the hell have you been, mister? Why aren't you decomposing?"

"Audiat." The very corners of Emilio's lips lift at Raphael's relieved quiver. "You're here. Hopefully, you'll help us figure out what's going on. I take it you don't know why the Messenger's body was buried beneath your floorboards?"

"Of course the bitch does," mutters one.

"Quiet," Raphael snaps.

As she steps closer and closer towards the prize they discuss, Audiat cleaves remarkably well through the sweaty bodies of the fuming he-angels, Emilio decides, reclining against the wall in his nook. The body, displayed rather magnificently on a pool table in the center of the game room, is the object they all group around – though they seem more repulsed with it than even Audiat.

"What was he doing there?" growls one angel accusingly. "You built him into your nest like a brick!"

"Like a twig!" adds another, riled up by one's assumptions.

"He was fertilizer!"

Though he shouldn't, Emilio chuckles silently at the final proclamation, amused with the truth of it.

"Now, now," Audiat chastises, walking up to Gabriel's body and circling it like a hawk, "I'm just as surprised as you are. Who found him? It was Maion, correct? Can I speak with her?"

"She's not here," sighs an angel with maroon wings in annoyance while another points towards the floor in an explanatory manner. Emilio's lips prick in disgust at the stain of dark red upon the carpet, a clear indication of Maion's location – either the clinic or the morgue.

"Oh, well, that's just swell." Audiat lips pinch together with displeasure, a great fire bursting to life in her eyes. Forcibly, she relaxes, releasing any aggravation in a short huff. "Well, how did he get here? He did fall on another continent, didn't he? Did someone fly him here? Did he fly himself here? Were you just waiting to be uncovered, Gabriel, you bastard? This is not a game of hide-and-seek!"

Emilio holds his breath as Audiat leans over the corpse, her finger outstretched. Caught by surprise, the angels simultaneously freeze, like rows of plastic soldiers. Uneasy glances are exchanged, and the room swims with aimless hostility. Ignoring the air of tension, Audiat pokes Gabriel's nose with the tip of her finger.

Waiting for only half a moment, she pokes it a second time. On the third, she makes the cartilage fold around her fingertip, jiggling back into place as she retracts. Slowly, cautiously, with an air of great respect about her, Audiat first gingerly lays her hand on his chest, then her ear, as if searching hopefully for a drumbeat to show any sign of life at all. Shrugging indifferently, she turns back to the group, lips pursed in a manner Emilio's grown quite familiar with.

"Well, I don't know what to say, boys." Audiat lifts an eyebrow. "If he had a heartbeat, I'd say he wasn't dead. But even though he's not rotting and is warm to the touch, he's got no signs of life about him. Those eyes, though, are creepy as hell, wish we could close them. It's almost as if he's got no heart left."

"How did he get there?" hollers one thunderously.

"I don't know!" Audiat roars gutturally, turning to him with a wrinkled nose and her wings outstretched, mimicking his tone with a twinkle in her eyes.

"You bitch!" cries the angel, marching forward ragefully until he's stopped by a more sensible comrade.

"Where's the bullet hole?" demands cynical voice – the maroon winged angel again steps forward. "He was shot down, wasn't he? Dead bodies don't heal themselves, Audiat! Does that mean he didn't die by bullet? Does that mean someone else took his life? _Something_ else, maybe?"

"Don't be stupid," Audiat giggles. "He was shot in the back. The bullet hole is on the" – with a sickening noise, she attempts to lift the body of the renowned archangel, only managing to thrust his torso headfirst off the edge of the pool table – "…back… Oh, dear. Well, there's the bullet hole."

"That's no bullet hole I've ever seen!" shrills a falsetto voice from the shadows, its strained pitch nearly breaking Emilio's professional façade with a chuckle.

Admittedly, the bullet hole doesn't look very much like a bullet hole to Emilio, either. It's wide and clean cut, and, though he can't quite be certain, grooves seem to spiral on the inside of the hole. Though flesh and bone can be seen deep within the recesses of the tunnel, he can't see any blood, or any tearing of the muscle at all. It looks more like a burrowing hole than a bullet to him.

"Do you see a lot of bullet holes?" Audiat inquires snidely. "Aside from that television of yours, Ezekiel, I doubt you had much in the way of experiences with either bullet holes in your hide or anyone else's. The only one with mild entitlement to a claim to fame is Ja – oh, darn, I forgot your name. _Freckles_. The only one that's been hit with a bullet that I know of in this room is Freckles."

"Jalael," mutters the freckled angel petulantly.

"Yes." Audiat waves a hand. "You. Now, someone help me get the Messenger back on the pool table, the poor guy looks like he's had too many drinks, and that's no way to treat a dead man…"

Audiat struggles with the body alone – no one seems willing to assist her, or to approach the body of their leader at all. Angels, frightened of the dead? Emilio finds it to be entertaining, especially since so many deceased can be accredited to pigeons on steroids. Then again, the dead hardly seem to be staying dead recently – perhaps it's wise, staying away from the warm body of a being without a heartbeat.

"This is all their fault, stupid monkeys!" huffs the thoughtlessly furious angel. "The hell are we supposed to do now, with him dead?"

"Democracy!" Audiat pipes up with childish naïvety, but her voice is lost in a sea of arguments.

"Raphael, do you really think you can take the Messenger's place?" "It's the monkey's fault! We should teach 'em like the vermin they are!" "What are you she-angels hiding? Bodies don't put themselves underneath bushes!" "You're right! It was one of the bitches!" "We should burn this place to the ground!"

"No, that's a very bad idea, we should try to avoid burning anything," suggests Josiah in a timid voice.

"Wasn't this place built by monkeys?" Titaniel purrs, the mere sound of his voice causing Emilio's hackles to rise. "It might not have anything to do with our… sisters. The treacherous pests might've easily stashed him there to frame our own for crimes they committed. Do not jump to conclusions."

"The humans!" gasps an angel on Titaniel's right. "This is what we get for following _his_ orders and letting those little rats infest the land!" He points a finger towards the carcass murderously.

"That's an awfully rude way to talk about him over his dead body," Audiat grunts, shoving his stiff body back onto the pool table.

"Well, of course," Uriel points out, "I'd rather have an infestation of monkeys than of monsters. Humans won't be difficult to stamp out. It's the Nephilim that have me worried! What if they had some hand in this foul play?"

"I heard something about one Nephilim donating especially to the library," Titaniel thunders. "He played a part in even selecting the plants best fitting for the environment. Maybe they are involved."

"Oh, but of course." Emilio relaxes at the sound of Raphael's dubious voice. "Little Metatron the dodo, conspiring against the Messenger. With _Nephilim_, of all things; yes, of course, that must be it. And where did you hear this from, Titaniel? Little bird tell you?"

"I overheard a demon talking about it," he says seriously. "He was walking out of the library. What was he doing there?"

"A demon," Audiat repeats, evading the question, her tone and attitude almost motherly in nature. "Wow. Titaniel, I really am proud of you. You are such a sleuth. This demon was of course telling the truth. Why would he lie, of course? After all, why would he want to mislead you about the corpse at all? It couldn't possibly have been him in the first place."

"I don't do well with sarcasm, Audiat," Titaniel threatens darkly.

"Good thing, too." She turns on heel, her eyes sparkling with malice. "Because I don't do well with idiots. I thought for a moment there we were going to have a problem. It's good we can sort out our differences and push aside petty irks like that, isn't it?"

Emilio pushes off the wall at Titaniel's enraged grunt, one of his hands flying to the hilt of Otra Espada, his sword. It isn't him, however, that steps between the archangel and the little feather duster. Raphael steps into place, looking as firm in his feet as a stone wall.

In a quiet voice as Titaniel starts forward, Raphael says quietly, "She's baiting you. Don't enter her game."

Luckily, the giant seems to listen to Raphael – Emilio relaxes as, after a single furious grunt, the brute relaxes and paces furiously back to his placement along the wall. Though his nerves aren't utterly calmed and the adrenaline simply waiting to pump back into his veins, Emilio forcibly releases tension in each of his muscles, instead burning his energy on thought.

Force would be idiotic to use against such muscled creatures – if the archangel's verbal attacks on humans do not cease, he'll have to rely on agility and grace to get him out of a sticky situation rather than use Sariel's choice of attack.

"Oh, now, Raffe!" Audiat giggles coyly, playing on the stereotype of a foolish whore for some reason beyond his understanding. "Taking away all my fun! Now, can somebody please tell me – you found Gabriel face down in the dirt, correct? Beneath a bush? What type of bush?"

"It doesn't matter what type of bush it was!" cries one in exasperation. "We need to find out who did this before the next Messenger is shot as he stands!"

"We don't even have another Messenger yet," Uriel reminds them patiently, seeming to be above the bickering of the angels.

"The bloody bastards, those humans!" Vehemently, a green-eyed angel swings his piercing gaze to Emilio. "Look! They eavesdrop even now! Rats hiding in the shadows, waiting to gnaw us to death the moment we close our eyes!"

"Filthy attitude, that one," Titaniel growls, his bright eyes terrifyingly emotionless.

"And how do we know it was the humans?" Audiat shouts, her high, sweet voice unable to attract the same attention as a low, booming one might. "It could be demons. They stir up all sorts of trouble, and Titaniel did see one in our library!"

"They are nuisances, yes, but they hardly have the mental capacity to pick up a gun," Uriel points out. "Demons are more stupid than monkeys."

"What if it's one of those Fallen bastards?" roars one.

Another bellows, "Stirring up trouble wherever they wander!"

"We've had more Fall or go missing in the last few months than in centuries," agrees another boisterously, stamping his feet like a windup toy. "Their numbers might surpass ours now!"

"Still too stupid!" argues another, his lips curved back into a sneer.

"Stop getting riled up!" shouts the maroon-winged one. "Unless you're suggesting we launch an attack on the monkeys in this instant, I advise you quiet down, because my patience has worn thin."

"Oh, go fuck yourself, Harachel," snarls a deep voice.

"Why don't we listen to him?" calls one angel that'd been standing silently. "There's a human base right outside! Why not have a little fun?"

Audiat sighs and kneads at her temple with two fingers, brow scrunched with annoyance, irritation bringing a twitch to one eye. Aggravatedly, her wings quiver, unfurling ever so slowly – but such a dwarf of a wingspan attracts no attention, and the he-angels only grow more and more riled up. If a drop of blood were shed, it could've whipped up into a feeding frenzy, like a bunch of mindless sharks.

Emilio shifts, uneasy. At least he'd gotten the little Young tykes out. Now it's only his hide and Audiat's he has to worry about.

* * *

It doesn't make the most of sense, coming here. Truly, it doesn't. Perhaps that explains why the crudely built pews are empty, why no one else bothers to go within a dozen yards of the little church.

Of course, at this moment, few would care to pray to the Lord – with the threat presented by Raffe's brigade of buddies and their fiery tempers, many are finding themselves busy getting as far away from camp as possible, or by readying the few guns this docile little outpost has put together. The residents are unprepared for an attack from angels, which, considering they're pampered by the she-angels, isn't wholly unexpected.

Faced with chaotic badgering from the settlement's leader as soon as he arrived, Hugo quickly split off on another path – out of underneath the angels' lens, Bay took Paige somewhere safer, his black-winged flight only causing a few panicked shots to be fired at the air. Alone in the throes of the panic, I'd decided to seek out a bit of peace before hell breaks loose.

It's not a grand thing, this church – the windows are glass, looking to be left over from the Triangle, and the cross is nothing more than two intersecting wooden beams that'd been sanded down. A tattered bible sits upon a tin podium, its quality far from superior. Birds hop about in the rafters. Even a feral cat slinks off into the shadows after spotting me.

A coil of nervousness tenses in my stomach as I slowly approach the altar. To anyone looking on, it'd look stupid, praying to God when angels are singing for blood. I try my best to swallow down emotions of shame and scorn, instead remembering Bryon's great reverence for the one he worships. Maybe there's something to it.

"Um… hey." Awkwardly, I hover in the shadow of the cross. "Hey, God, it's me, Penryn. Nice to see you again. It's been a while. Listen, if you're there, give me a sign, okay?"

I wait, feeling like an idiot. A bird poops, but nothing fantastical happens.

"Right." I sigh, rubbing my thumb over the hilt of Emilio's knife. "That's what I thought. Listen, God, if you're there… we really need you right now. People are really suffering. We're scared and we're all alone. We don't know who we can trust anymore." I take a shaky breath. "And why shouldn't you like to lend a helping hand? Aren't we… aren't we your people, like the Nephilim, the angels?

"…It's like you've abandoned us, all of us. I know I've asked for stuff before, but please… just lend my people a hand, _please_. We're scared. I'm scared. Just… please… help us."

Another moment of eerie silence passes.

_He won't listen to you._

I start violently at the sound of the voice. Wheeling around, cheeks reddening, I watch a dull-scaled Theobella slink over the ground. Her unblinking blue and bronze eyes remain trained on me.

"I'm not even sure there's a 'He' to listen," I laugh nervously, not taking my eyes off Theobella, even as she moves smoothly past me, slithering towards the altar with fluid movements. "Weren't you supposed to be with Raffe?"

_He's in the middle of a meeting. I don't know if you recall, but last time I interrupted one of those, my experience was far from stellar. However, I did not make myself known to you to discuss the archangel. Why do you pray to God when he so little cares for you?_

Though I'm not utterly certain as to why, I'm stung by that. "How are you an expert all the sudden on the Lord?"

_It's simple facts. We are all like pigs at a slaughterhouse. Have you not ever read the bible? Attended a mass? Heard the rants of street preachers? God tells us to believe in Him blindly. Throughout these sacred pages_ – Theobella takes her claws and leafs through the raggedy bible – _he again and again tries to drill a message into our heads: blind obedience. Live the poor life. Live the hard life. Be kind as others plunder from you. Though you shall not receive any relief in life, He shall congratulate you in the next. What does that sound like to you?_

"Pretty godly, actually," I mumble, eyebrows raised.

_It sounds like we are dumb animals in a pasture, our minds dulled for a massacre – ask not why, ask not how. He encourages us to suffer. And though that may not be evident upon first glance, it most certainly is upon second. We are the little lab mice, all interacting with each other and bickering and brawling, and he is our enamored scientist. Does a scientist not love his work? Does a scientist not adore his mice? But should many die in the process, shall he look at it as a tragedy, or as an interesting method to draw new data from its subjects? Our Lord cares not for us. In fact, the more we suffer, the more interesting results we provide and the tastier our souls become. _

"What?" I squeak. "What are you saying?"

Theobella seems to sigh, shaking out her mane of scales in irritation, causing them to rattle against each other. She lazily curls up the cross, halting at its peak, staring down at me like the star of a Christmas tree. _The answer is in other cultures, where their concept of heaven is becoming one with God. We are morsels. The sooner we accept this, the sooner we can advance. So, you see, it is useless to pray to Him._

"Bryon does," I persist stubbornly. "You know what? I don't believe you."

_Shame, too. I'm looking at that verse down there… from the John section, I believe… "Very true I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds." So there you have it – the sick sort of time wheel we're sent through. Even our deaths are meant to spurn sorrow out of others. And, according to the bible, unless we die, we serve no purpose to our Lord._

"The bible isn't all there is. Life through death doesn't sound too appealing to me, and it wouldn't be the sort of thing Bryon'd be interested in, either."

_You'd think that you'd believe me, considering I've watched Death rear his ugly head. I'm not here to convince you. It's merely fact; if you do not accept such fact, then why should I bother to use precious energy getting you to think otherwise? _

I study her, wondering if I should make a comment about just how different Belle and Theobella are, but deciding against it out of fear for the latter.

_Get out._

I nearly jump out of my skin at the strange intruder on my thoughts – it's not Theobella, that's certain. Rough, gravelly, yet warm and massive, _bellowing_, almost, though the voice is soft. Could it be the voice of Black Wolf? Had he gotten over his pithy grudge against me? Why would he warn me now, of all times?

The roar of a gun sounds outside, giving me another scare. Theobella lifts her head, elegant nostrils whiffing at the air. My skin crawls as shouts and hollers from the camp outside echo around the inside of the church. Memories of the terror I'd witnessed on TV of an angel attack, my legs urge me to do exactly what Black Wolf – or whoever it'd been – suggested. Run as far away from here as possible.

_Well, Penryn. _From her perch upon the cross, Theobella stretches out her wings, her scales emitting a strangely metallic sound. _You have proved me wrong. There was someone listening to your prayers, it would seem._

"What?" I ask stupidly, hand still on Emilio's knife.

_There is a reason, Penryn, people pray to the Son of God rather than the Lord himself. It seems that he was listening, and has decided his side in this earthly skirmish._

* * *

"I do not think it's a good idea for us to raid the human camp," Raphael insists, slamming a fist down on the table. "I want to crush the skull of whoever put Gabriel in this position, but unless we know for certain who did it, I don't want to waste time on them."

"That's very unlike you, Raffe," Uriel chuckles, his eyes dancing with spite. "Turning down a chance to bust heads? Why, it's practically your only character trait, head busting."

"You like categorizing people, don't you?" Raphael chuckles, feeling umbrage beginning to brew in his stomach. "Like to keep them all lined up in rows. When are you going to learn that people can't be defined so easily?"

"Oh, please." Uriel waves a hand. "You make me out to be some diva, Raffe. As if I keep secrets from any of you."

Raphael cocks an eyebrow. "Raise your hand if you have ever felt personally victimized by Uriel the Archangel."

Uneasy glances are passed among the congregated, as if uncertain to follow their archangel's lead. As more than a few hands tentatively shoot up amongst the eager spectators, Uriel's lips pinch together, and his eyes fill with venom. He swings his gaze upon Raphael, eyes smoldering like balls of fire.

"Raphael, I am one Mean Girls quote away from wringing your neck," Uriel spits. "You need to stop baiting people like one of those she-bitches."

The archangel of wrath purses his lips and shrugs cattily. "I'm sorry that people are so jealous of me… but I can't help it that I'm so popular."

A single malevolent sparkle in his opponent's eyes is all Raphael receives in terms of body language as Uriel registers the quote, all he receives to help him realize that maybe, maybe the other archangel isn't quite as ticked as he pretends to be. Maybe Raphael had just waltzed his way into a trap.

With a roar of fury, Uriel rises from the table, striding towards the doors, waving his arms about to rally the angels once sitting around, once calm, once happy observing a fight, and stimulating their bloodlust. "That is _enough_, Raphael! I have had enough of your _bitching_! Come on, boys, let's go wreak havoc!"

* * *

**I don't know if anyone's been picking up on it, but Raffe's quoted Mean Girls several times throughout this fanfiction, not just here. **

**The bible passages referenced in this are Matthew 25:31-33 and John 12:24. **

**Also: I don't mean to insult any religions, it's just a work of fiction. **

**A review last chapter got me thinking about Bryon's name. It was originally supposed to be Byron, but I didn't want him to be associated with Lord Byron, so I tweaked it slightly in a way that still held its regal sort of appeal. Lil fun fact.**

**My life has suddenly become erratic and unpredictable, due to the unexpected suicide from a very, very close family member. As I worked on this very chapter, my father committed suicide on the 2nd of December, around noon. It's... impacting. This will more than likely have a toll on my writing – I'll either go on a writing rampage in my grief or move at a sluggish pace. It's hard for me to tell at this point. Please, bear with me through this hell!**

**POLL: Theobella and Belle truly aren't the same, deep down inside – it's quite a metamorphosis. So far, we've seen a similar metamorphosis through Lucius's eyes, and heard Bryon speak of one. What moments am I speaking of? And what element is the same? Hint: you'll have to go way back for Bryon's.**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	57. Chapter Fifty-Six

**Chapter Fifty Six**

People panic, fleeing like mice as a terrifying cloud of angels swoop over the farmland at alarming speeds. Their shadows are like arrows cleaving through the golden sea of wheat. My heart hammers in my chest primitively. Fear exhumes itself at the neat warrior's formation formation they soar towards us in.

Stumbling backwards for cover, I stare dumbly at the approaching brigade, searching for a familiar pair of wings amongst the feathers – I'm not certain if the knowledge that Raffe's not among them is a comfort or a calamity. No last-minute rescues for this girl; I'll have to make for the hills like the rest of them.

I wheel around, unsheathing Emilio's knife as I do so, and involuntarily notice something unimportant and oddly specific in my periphery: Theobella sitting on the pinnacle of the church, watching the approach of the angels calmly. With a start of guilt, I realize I simply don't have time for saving her.

If worst does come to worst and she stupidly sits there, then she'll probably just be reborn again.

If she's not… I'm not utterly certain I'd cry over it. Belle is dead, and my dislike is mounting for Theobella.

People flock behind barricades, and I automatically realize it'd be a poor place to hide. Instead, I pelt for the forest, like several others smarties – true, the barricades have traps designed to snag and snare feathers, but angels can fly over it. The concentrated number of vulnerable people is a danger. It breaks my heart, but I don't have time to warn them.

The angels draw closer and closer. My heart pounds in my chest. I can't properly sprint because I keep looking back to steal glances at them. Just like a bird can't turn its back on a snake, I can't seem to look away from heaven's might.

"_Not one flap closer_."

It's strange because the voice that echoes over the plain sounds calm, collected, unlike the hoarse shout I would've expected. I screech to a halt, casting uncertain glances towards the sky. The voice had been so loud it seems to echo off the inside of my head, and it'd been blown beyond recognition by the massive increase in sound, but I recognize it, I know I do…

The angels above falter in the strokes of their wings, but the dark-skinned one that must be Titaniel drives them onward with a single bellow.

"_Don't you imbeciles listen?"_

My mouth drops open. Frantically, I yank my gaze around, searching for the source of the voice I'm now certain I recognize.

A pure white figure slips from the shadows of the trees, striding lazily towards the angels despite the frightened cries of men and the swivel of gun barrels to him. My mouth drops open.

A slender white hand reaches towards the sky, and, with a snap of the fingers that echoes throughout the valley, their guns drop to the ground. Some issue cries of pain, all watching with disbelief as the metal on their guns heats and smokes upon the ground.

"_I told you._ _Shame you didn't listen._"

A single angel looms before the rest – the freckled angel, I realize, the one with the spotted wings. And whereas the rest of the angels had halted in their tracks after a warning call from Titaniel, probably recognizing the Prince of Hell amongst the people, the freckled angel darts forward. His blade shines valiantly in his hands.

Lucius is the more terrifying of the two, of course. My heart skips a few beats as the wings usually folded so tightly against his back stir, two black crescents, rough and encrusted with blades. Slowly, they crane upwards, revealing their full glory. The sun shines through them, gold glinting off the cruel, jagged black of his blades.

The air stirs as, with one sweep of those wings, Lucius lifts into the air.

I've never really seen him flying before. Can't say I ever really want to again.

There's a brutal ferocity in his movements in the air – not that the angels don't have that, but there's always this notion of grace and holy righteousness with them. Lucius is both incisive and malicious with his movements, showing neither of those heavenly traits in the cruel flap of his terrifying black wings.

He wraps the unfortunate angel in those hellish wings, impaling the other's feathers with the great scythes along the edges, using them in a way Raffe never had. The angel's holler of pain causes me to shiver in my shoes, gripping Emilio's knife for dear life.

As the angel plummets downwards, frantically flapping in an attempt to free himself but only causing his wings more damage, Lucius seems to merely drift. The broad sides of his wings extended like gliders help him casually fall back down to the earth as the angel drops like a stone.

Landing in a crumpled heap, Freckly fruitlessly pulls away from the sharp barbs holding him in place, wailing, slicing at Lucius's wings with his sword. Sparks fly as the blade bounces harmlessly off the hooked armor.

Casually, Lucius drags the angel closer, only annoyed with his efforts to escape. The angel leaves troughs in the ground where the desperation to survive overtakes him and drives his feet into the skin of the earth. He emits chilling wails as the demon draws him closer, calling for the assistance of his friends, his comrades, the ones that wait idly and watch as their ally is destroyed by his foe.

Once he comes within range, Lucius nonchalantly knocks the angel's sword aside, causing it to fly several feet as if it weighs nothing. A moan of loss escapes the angel's lips. With his face still a mask of brutal indifference, Lucius snakes his snowy white hand forward, clamping around the angel's neck.

Initially, the position he holds it at is bizarre – after all, I believe that the demon's going for strangulation, not leverage. But as his other hand settles on the base of his wing and tendons bulge in Lucius's arms, I realize otherwise.

"_Perhaps I should grant you a reason to give my warnings a little more thought…_"

With a shriek of pain, the angel's attempts to escape double in aggression; snapping at the air with his teeth, pulling at Lucius's hands, kicking out at the wings, desperately trying to free himself.

These creatures, these angels, are built for war, with every fiber in their being solely created for the reaping of death – but the angel is helpless, utterly helpless, in the clutches of Lucius, the Prince of Hell itself. The sound of ripping flesh fills the valley.

I wince at the hideous noise. Somehow, Lucius had gotten that to amplify, too.

The angel casts back his head with a final shriek of agony, tears running down his face, as the wing jars loose. A sickening pop echoes off the mountain. Left behind is a bloody mess of tendons and bones that'd not properly ripped. I realize that my knees are buckling moments before I hit the ground, and only barely manage to catch myself.

Raffe once ripped through stitches to get his wings back – but to rip a wing off?

I shudder, imagining Lucius ripping off an arm, something I'm now deadly certain he has a full capacity to do.

I don't want to see him repeat the process with the second wing, I really don't. Especially since the angel goes limp in his grief, leaving Lucius to rip apart a defenseless man. Regardless of species, it's a terrifying sight, seeing one so helpless. One wing becomes two on the ground, lying in a sticky, bloody mess.

"_I can cripple you_."

Tossing the limp, beaten angel away from him, Lucius folds his wings by his sides, the bloodied hooks streaking scarlet over the white fabric of his suit. He seems to be on the verge of fainting as the angel feebly crawls from Lucius. Watching the angel's pathetic attempt at an escape, Lucius has no mercy in his face, no mercy at all – only a stone cold exasperation, as if wondering if it's truly the best Freckly can do.

"_I can torture you_."

Lucius kicks the blade Freckly had been scurrying closer towards away, sending it skittering down the hill. Releasing another moan of loss, the angel watches it bounce further from him, extending a single hand after it as if it could float back into his possession.

The demon's foot slams cruelly into the angel's side repeatedly as Lucius kicks Freckly over onto his back – it's a sort of kick that I've never seen before; I would not call it dainty, but there's something in its manner that's royal and immaculate, only dirtying the tip of his shoe.

Groaning from the repeated blows, the angel tips onto his back, looking spent. I recall when Raffe got beaten up and his wings ripped off – he'd been an archangel, and he'd had to sleep for ages to get even remotely better.

Lucius sets his foot upon angel's chest, leaning down to look at his captured prize.

"_I can so utterly dominate you in every manner_."

A slow, black smile creeps over the demon's face. My blood curdles in my veins at the sight of it, riddling with pure white needles as teeth and dripping with thick, black venom.

"_I can even change your very being_."

Smiling nastily down at his prey like a cat with a mouse's tail caught beneath its paw, Lucius chuckles softly, the sound of it only just echoing over the valley, like a soft drumbeat to ripple at the edges of the imagination. My skin crawls as slowly, that terrible, spindly-fingered hand reaches up to the sky. I want to stop him from whatever he's doing, to save Freckly from the wrath of whatever hellbound punishment awaits him, but I'm glued to the spot in my terror, unable to look away yet unable to stop the horror.

I wince at the snap of the fingers.

Freckles's screams of anguish as he flounders beneath Lucius's sole, clawing towards the sky for help, or perhaps in prayer for holy relief in death.

"_Look upon your comrade, your friend, as he turns from godly to filthy. He did not heed my warnings and suffers accordingly. Watch him as his treacherous blood festers in his veins, as he changes from angel to Son of Man. Watch as he becomes the very creature he attempted to massacre. Unless you, too, wish to lie upon the ground and watch as your strength fades from you, I advise you to turn tail and scheme up another plan for another day. These people and all the good God's people are under my protection. Now, go, and good day to you!_"

I gape like a fish out of water. Trying to understand his words in vain, I watch as the angel crashes to the ground, released from Lucius's grip. He doesn't look like an angel. My mind no longer feels the same predatory sharpness with the angel's presence. He doesn't seem like an Adonis anymore, all hunched and skinny and scrawny and bony.

Had Lucius said a Son of Man?

A terrified tingle dances down my spine.

Does he really have the power to… to turn an angel into a person? A human? If so… why hasn't he done so before now?

For reasons I can't quite explain, my gaze lingers on the tiny dragon sitting atop the church's pinnacle, tail like a flag in the wind and eyes like beacons.

The angels, initially shocked, staring down upon their fallen comrade, whisper to one another. I'm not sure who is the first to fall back – but I do know that whoever it is strikes a movement. Shouting frightened curses at the demon, threatening to tattle to his father, they surge back towards the aerie. Something in the way they soar tells me that they're trying to maintain dignity, but they only look like a pack of dogs crawling over each other to get back underneath their security blanket.

Their fear is not lost upon me, for this is not supposed to happen. An angel is _not_ supposed to become man. It is not to be. Their fear is the same that drives into my people as Lucius slowly turns about to face them, the same fear that causes them to trill with fright. They lunge for their guns, which have miraculously cooled off, and position their scopes on his back, shouting out threats.

"Guns down!" shouts a familiar voice, thundering over the words with depth in every syllable. I shiver with recognition, ripping myself from the trance I'd been thrust into with the help of Bryon's voice. "For the love of God, he just saved your hides, guns down!"

"Sir –" I hear one begin to protest as the familiar tall figure walks in front of the futile barricades, cut off with a simple flair of my uncle's hand. His eyes are stormy, and his face is brutal, his entire appearance almost unrecognizable, had it not been for the flap of his silky brown cloak.

I've only seen Bryon a few times the way he is now – caught in the beginning stages of his transformation from man to beast. His eyebrows have hardened, their ridges wrapping around his head to emerge as his horns. Black slits slice through his unnaturally bronze pupils. Against the nape of his neck, brindling with his brown hair, his mane grows, swaying with each stride.

My gaze darts around, but none seem frightened by his appearance – rather, he seems to relax my people. Is it possible they know him already? That they're already so impacted by his personality they no longer fear such a gruesome face?

Perhaps responding to my uncle's slow but steady advance, Lucius turns to face us all, his shoulders sagging and his knees bending slightly.

I probably shouldn't even pretend to be shocked by the strange demon, but the same startled jolt shakes my stomach at the sight of the Prince of Hell staggering towards my uncle – staggering, taking a few unsteady steps, before collapsing like a rag doll.

"Prepare him a bed!" Bryon snarls. "Don't bother with food or water, he doesn't need any of that!"

Leaping forward with a snap of his cloak, my uncle dashes to Lucius's side, falling to his knees before the demon. Bryon cradles the devil's head in his lap and murmurs something to Lucius, looking down at him with concern in his eyes. I jar into action, moving forward towards him.

Who knows if I can trust Lucius? Bryon I'm certain I can stand by.

His eyes yank up from the body of Lucius, shining irately, staring right past me at the audience he'd created. "Well? What are you waiting for? Should you not shower your savior in praise and adoration because he looks funny? Get on with it! You have been protected, and your guardian is in need! Do not forget your humanity!"

For some reason, that seems to jar the people into action. As I watch them in the corner of my eye rushing towards houses and embracing loved ones as they curiously creep closer, I wonder if a speech of Bryon's had contained something about not forgetting humanity.

"Hey," I breathe, hanging over Bryon's shoulder. "Hey, Bryon, what just happened?"

"He choked," Bryon reports. "There was a reason those little microphone pills of my brother's were mere prototypes."

"What?" My brow furrows. "Oh, that's not what I meant, but, uh, good to know. I mean, what happened with Freckly over there? Is he really…? Did Lucius…?"

I observe the angel with a critical eye. Once perfectly fitting his gorgeous features, his hair is now grungy and long, hanging in his eyes. Any supernatural beauty he has is lost; true, he's not particularly ugly, but he wouldn't get a job at a modelling agency. He sits in a confused heap of clothing and dislodged, chunky armor, looking around with puzzled brown eyes.

"Well, I don't know." He glances up at me, smiling that gentle smile of his, eyes soft despite their feral appearance. "If it did work, that is one confused angel-man. Perhaps you would like to investigate it while I dislodge your father's microphone pill?"

"How did he even get one of those?" I mutter, staring down at Lucius's still face. "Why is his choking on it disabling him? Doesn't he not need oxygen, just crazy mojo?"

"How do you think he ingests this crazy mojo, Penryn?" Bryon chuckles softly, gently bracing a thumb on Lucius's chin to peel back his mouth, revealing those slender teeth and that black ribbon of a tongue. "Poor bastard. Trying to do the right thing for once in his life, and he chokes onstage. How embarrassing."

"I would call it terrifying." I stare at my ominous reflection in his sunglasses. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about in that performance. What if Freckly bites?"

"Good question." With a single finger, Bryon nudges at Lucius's tongue, bobbing his head up and down as if to get a better view down his throat. "You don't have to check him out. Here comes Bay, most likely drawn by Lucius's great big voice. He'd most likely be a… softer, more understanding candidate."

Lifting my head to catch sight of the Fallen angel's black wingspan gliding over the ranks of the humans, I nod, agreeing wholeheartedly that a gentle angel like Bay, one that underwent something similar, would be a much better reception for Freckly. As I study him, I meet Bay's gaze briefly. He smiles, setting down my sister, but waits before approaching.

"Bay," Bryon calls. "Get the angel-man some help. Not here, take him to Sercem Domu. Ah, actually, arrange for him to be delivered to Sercem Domu, stick around. If he's truly a Son of Man now, he'll be vulnerable to tranquilizers. Excuse me, miss –"

Bryon waves a hand towards a woman with an intense expression.

"Yes, hello, you." Bryon smiles beatifically. "Do you mind shooting this angel-man with a tranquilizing dart?"

I don't have the time to blink before she's fired her gun.

"Well, that didn't require much thought!" Bryon says with a chuckle, refocusing on Lucius, gingerly reaching inside his mouth with two fingers. "A bit zealous, weren't you? Bay, take him to Rumbbaa, then send the wolf on his way. Penryn, stay here by my side, I might need your help… Oh, Paige, honey, go find Hugo, will you? And then find Ms. De La Flor!"

"Be careful!" I shout after her, unable to protest as she nods crisply and darts off into the crowd.

Bryon glances up at me, the streak of bronze coiling around his pupil in a curious manner. Gingerly, his fingers work to extract the tiny microphone from Lucius's throat, his opposite hand still prying the demon's jaw gently open. Despite the complications he works with, his mind seems to still be trained on me.

"Hello, Penryn, it's been a little while," he greets, smiling in his warm, fatherly way, his eyes reverting back to their former softness with a nice, round pupil. "I'm not in a coma anymore, needless to say. When I woke up, they told me you had spent the night with Hugo and Baelan… do I even really want to know how that went?"

"They woke me up early, but it went pretty good," I reason, deciding not to bring up Hugo's lewdness on their location throughout the long cold night. "Hey, shouldn't you be giving that" – I point towards Lucius – "your hundred percent?"

"Well, I suppose that would be a smart thing to do." Bryon laughs softly, bringing a smile to my face and reminding me just how much I've missed his company. "Just don't bump into me, and I'll be fine – if his fangs pierce my skin, I'm going to slip right back into that coma. I'm good at multitasking. What else have you been up to? Other than this unfortunate event with Belle… and Theobella." A troubled gleam once shafts through his gaze. "Other than that, what's been going on in your spiel of things?"

"Oh, uh…" I blink several times. "I spent the day primarily with Audiat until this popped up. Did you know that?"

"I did not!" he exclaims with a touch of hesitance, a flare of longing and grief appearing in his eyes for mere moments. "Funny, you'd think something like that would come up in conversation. How do you like her?"

"She's a strange little angel, that's for sure," I laugh. "Do you just attract eccentric people or something?"

"That'd explain why you and I get along," Bryon chuckles, his eyes flashing humorously up at me.

I resist the urge to elbow him. "You think you're hilarious. But yeah, it was nice, talking to Audiat. I can totally see how the two of you get along. She was… she wanted you to know that she loves you with all her heart, you know. She can't wait until she sees you again."

"And I her." Bryon quiets, his beautifully content smile wiped from his face, slit pupils once more slicing through his eyes, the sliver of black growing thinner and thinner as his mind grows further and further, becoming small as his thoughts become deep. "I love her more than this world, Penryn. I would die a thousand times over for her."

I open my mouth to say something, but words I cannot summon. What should I say? What could I say? To restate what has undoubtedly been said by thousands of other well-wishers would do him no good.

An excuse to not say anything at all arises as Lucius begins to cough, his body convulsing. Bryon's hand snap back, something gripped tightly in between the fingers stained black with Lucius's saliva. Rubbing the black ooze on the grass, Bryon gently shakes the demon with his opposite hand, intense expression filled with concern.

The first movement Lucius makes is to snap his fingers.

My stomach plunges with unease, knowing that whatever he just did, can't be good.

Bryon sighs with relief, not uttering a word. He bows his head and shuts his eyes, a faint, thankful smile playing with his lips. As Lucius stirs, righting himself, sitting up, Bryon begins to laugh. Clapping Lucius on the shoulder, my uncle's small little smile swells into a broad grin.

"These whiskers aren't because I haven't shaved my beard recently," he sighs with a grateful, heartfelt tone. "I'm actually trying to grow a beard, but they won't get any longer. It's why I never need to shave. I'm quite embarrassed by it but I refuse to give up hope."

A moment of silence passes.

I stare at him, pursing my lips to avoid breaking into a grin. "…What?"

Bryon looks baffled, glancing up at me and cocking his head. "The only reason I want to grow a beard is so that I can stroke it and look clever."

His bafflement turns to mortification.

Poorly stifling giggles, I look down at Lucius. "Did you do this?"

"Oh, yes." The demon stretches, his spine popping into place with a rhythm of revolting crunches. "Can't have him giving me his pathetic speech quite yet. Now, he's just going to blurt out little facts about himself that he doesn't want anyone to know."

"I was the one that braided the abalone chips into Hugo's hair." Bryon claps a hand over his mouth.

Lucius chuckles, pushing up from Bryon's lap. "I'm quite enjoying this, Dragon King, you're quite the funny man."

"Why do you have to do stuff like that?" I sigh, trying to maintain the appearance of a mature adult, knowing full well that I'm going to tease the living hell out of Bryon for this later.

Through his sleek, shiny sunglasses, Lucius meets my gaze, a cruel smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "Why is Baelan wearing a pair of five-inch stripper heels?"

Bay releases a high pitched yelp, suddenly stumbling about in my periphery. I gasp, whipping my head around in time to see the massive Fallen angel face-plant into the ground. A ripple of laughter echoes throughout the human camp, and people whisper to one another, pointing cruel fingers towards him with their starved desires for entertainment. Even humiliating an innocent man like Baelan gives them cause to group up and chuckle.

The fury already settled in the pit of my stomach grows more ferocious as Bay curls up in a ball, hiding himself with his wings, frantically trying to pull the clear plastic heels off his feet.

"Why did you have to do that?" I snarl, glaring down at Lucius.

"Why did Raphael's shrimp suddenly come alive?"

* * *

"Uh…"

Mike, the waiter charged with catering for the little get together with the albino angel and the other blue-eyed one, turns, a sense of dread settling in his stomach. His draw drops at the sight of dozens of little creatures wiggling over the platter, infecting the rest of the appetizers. The blue-eyed angel spits out one of the little shrimp, gagging slightly, leaning over the edge of the table.

The albino angel pleads with red eyes. "Uh… help?

* * *

"You're such an asshole," I hiss, standing up beside Lucius, glaring at him furiously as he fiddles with his cuffs and straightens his tie. "You just did something almost sort of nice! Kind of creepy and terrifying, but for a nice reason! Why do you have to ruin – oh, crap."

Lucius grins sleazily my direction, his white eyebrows shooting up. "Why is Hugo wearing a pair of five-inch stripper heels?"

"Why isn't Hugo wearing a pair of five-inch stripper heels is a better question." The boy's familiar voice comes from the crowd that'd grouped around Bay.

He struts from the midst of the cruel audience with a stride that seems better fit in a magazine, or on a runway. Pity gleams in his copper eyes as he stares down at his boyfriend. "Okay, all y'all laughing at him, know that each and every one of you is going to hell. Bay, here, let me fix this…"

Apparently, I'm not the only one watching his strut as he approaches his boyfriend and kneels before him.

"That boy walks better in heels than I do," acknowledges Bryon. I half-turn towards him, seeing enough to glimpse the shame in his gaze and the slap of his hand over his mouth.

"So, what did it mean, your whole rant there?" I question, careful to avoid the dangerous word, why. "Are you protecting this place? Just this place, or all human places?"

"Eventually, I hope to envelope all of humanity in a warm, loving glow," Lucius mutters, pulling his deck of cards from his suit and rifling briefly through it. "This settlement is the first, of course, and I simply wouldn't have the strength to abolish that little group in the way I did that angelic bastard should they attack, never mind an entire army, but I shall call in the cavalry soon enough."

"The cavalry?"

"You've met White Wolf, haven't you?" Again, through his glasses, I feel his hair-raising glare. "I sent him after you once you escaped the car accident. That is the cavalry. He simply itches for instances to avenge the helpless and weak. Merely needs to be pointed in the right direction."

"That was you?" I glance towards Bryon. "I thought that was…"

"I believe it was a joint request." Lucius pulls at his tie again, as if unsatisfied with its angle. "As I am certain you understand, Young, I'm a very busy man with many appointments. I cannot be bother by you any longer. As it so happens, I'm going to have to face a fuming Daddy Dearest unless I want him to hunt me down. Good day, Miss Young."

I step forward, still requiring one last answer from the demon, but my mind baulks from the word _why_ and wastes precious time. "…What made you want to do that? Protect us?"

"It seems to be a relatively overlooked fact that I, too, am a Nephilim of sorts." Lucius sounds bored with my question. "That gives me a lot of human blood, you know. I'm every bit as entitled to fight for these people as you are. Now, good day."

Again, I step closer, driven by curiosity, caring not that I might be rubbing him the wrong way. "What made you remember that now? What have you been doing all this time?"

"That's my business and my business only. You're overstepping your boundaries, Young. _Good day_."

I'm not quite sure where he goes – a sound like a snake trying to bark causes me to flinch away, and, with a streak of white, he vanishes into the neighboring woods. After him surge a few furry coats, most likely belonging to his hellhounds. With a tingle down my spine, I realize that he probably has a Nephilim beast form, too – and I'd bet my lucky stars it looks like a hellhound.

"I pride myself on my ability to get through to others, but he's always infuriated me." Bryon gives me a meaningful look, smiling triumphantly, as if letting me know in his bizarre way that it'd been a talking-to from the Dragon King that'd changed Lucius's mind.

"How long are you going to be talking like that, Bryon?" Hugo calls over his shoulder. I smile at my friend, watching as he gives the miserable, ashamed Bay a foot massage and noticing that the boy's stripper heels are still strapped firmly on.

"When I was angry or frustrated as a child, I used to pee on trees and pretend they were Raphael."

I fight a losing battle against my laughter. My breath comes out in stuttering gasps.

Bryon shoots me a sulky look, sticking his lower lip out. "The first time I heard about Hugo's Fallen angel crush, I despised Baelan with all my might." Stricken, Bryon glances in horror towards Bay, his lips moving in silent apologies.

"I could tell," Bay sighs sadly, looking even more crestfallen.

My heart pulls at his pathetic misery. My laughter chokes off as I take on a more serious expression with much difficulty.

"I spit in your coffee." Before Bryon can clap a hand back over his mouth, he squeaks out, "And your muffin."

Bay looks down at the ground. "I noticed."

"You saint," Hugo whispers, cuddling up against his boyfriend and burying his face into Bay's shoulder, still wearing his heels.

"But now that I know you better," Bryon pipes up, looking like he desperately wishes to remedy the situation, "I've been praying every day that you become part of my family. I can think of no one better to call my son-in-law."

Hugo's soothing croons become squeals of delight. "See, Bay, he can't lie, I knew it, I knew he loved you! And you were skeptical! _And you were skeptical!_ What was it you said? He was just trying to be nice to you? You were wrong! Oh, I know my father after all, you son of a bitch!"

Bay hushes Hugo, smiling down at the emotional teenager with a kind twinkle in his eyes. "Hugo," he whispers with a nervous chuckle, "I said that ages ago. I don't believe it anymore!" Clearing his throat, Bay announces, "Sir, it would be an honor to join the lineage of Youngs, and I look forward to doing it as soon as possible."

Bryon gives Bay the special smile that's equivalent to a big, warm hug. "There's a spot between my horns that causes my leg to jerk like a dog's when scratched."

That's it for me – I break into more laughter, covering my face. Bay follows suit, but I think his laughter is more of a relieved, contented thing. Hugo's cackling is most certainly not – he rolls around on his back, the whites of his eyes wildly flashing.

Glancing around dejectedly, Bryon walks off, dragging his feet ever so slightly as he goes.

"At least you can take stripper heels off, poor man," Bay sympathizes, staring after Bryon sadly. "My own dilemma pales in comparison to his."

"I wouldn't call this dilemma a dilemma at all." Hugo leans back against Bay, grinning snarkily up at his lover. "I saw you watching me, Baymobile. You think I'm _sexy_. Don't you, Bay? Don't these stripper heels just make me look hot?"

"I would never objectify you like that," Bay declares, but a smile pulls at his lips, and his eyes trail down Hugo's body. His voice is low enough that I can only hear the faintest whispers of the Fallen angel's other, _darker_ endearments, making me smile.

Both of their heads snap up in unison, like a pair of kittens after catching scent of catnip. A silhouette grows closer with flaps of snowy white wings. Around me, humans cry out, shoving their fingers up towards the sky. They watch, initially unperturbed by the flying warrior. That certainly changes when he crosses some imaginary line and the first person begins to flee.

I watch, exasperated, as tiny children and big, buff men hefting machine guns alike dash off around me. The intense-looking woman with the tranquilizing gun is the only one around us that seems to keep her cool, her lips screwing up as she lifts the scope into position.

_Crack!_

A wooden ladle falls back into position, held at the ready in a round woman's grasp.

"That is my son!" Ms. De La Flor snarls ferociously, shaking her ladle at the soldier. "The only one who will be tranquilizing him _will be me!_"

As the woman falls to the ground, knocked unconscious by the wrath of the ladle, I back away from the Spanish mother. Holding up my hands in surrender, I smile sweetly at her, trying to appear nonthreatening and friendly – the last person she'd want to hit upside the head with a ladle.

Luckily, though, Ms. De La Flor's hands drop by her sides, and she smiles tenderly at me. "Penryn, senorita, I must make you lamb!"

"Mama," whispers out a strained voice. With a burst of wind and the sound of feathers scooping the air, Emilio appears on the ground beside her. "Oh, Mama…"

Her smile fading almost immediately into weeping keens, the rosy old woman turns to her son and wraps him up in a big hug around his torso. Tears streak over her face, expression clenched with the anguished emotions of a mother. My heart clenches as Emilio does the same, buckling over his mama, stroking at her salt-and-pepper hair, whispering through the strain of his voice and smiling through the cascade of tears down his face.

"Oh, Mama, I was so worried about you…" He pulls her even tighter against his chest, planting a kiss on the top of her head, his eyes swimming with emotion. "When I heard that Gabriel had been found, all I wanted to do was to come here. I don't know what I'd do if something had happened to you… _Mama_." He kisses her again, blinking another tear down his cheek. "I cannot lose you too, Mama. It is decided. I will not allow you to stay in this camp."

"You cannot choose my fate for me," Ms. De La Flor sobs, "and I refuse to leave you so far from family. I came here for you!"

"I know," Emilio says quietly, closing his eyes, allowing the tears to flow without much resistance. "Hush, hush, I know. But it isn't safe here for you! Surely you see that!"

"I see nothing more than a foolish boy looking to escape his mother's lamb with foolish American cooking – bah!" she scolds, laughing fruitily through her rich tears. "I got you lamb, ungrateful brat! Good lamb! You will eat it and you will like it and you will quit acting like you know what's better for your mama!"

"Yes, ma'am," Emilio sighs, smiling down at her. "But I won't let this go."

"None of them ever do, stubborn Spaniards," Hugo mutters, tapping at my arm. "Now, c'mon, Penryn, they've got enough people staring as it is. I don't want that not-quite-angelic bastard in Bay's arms any longer than necessary – it's a luxury only for _me_."

"Hugo," Bay scolds softly.

"What?" The boy glares at his boyfriend with an arched brow. "It's true. Who cares if it was a task given to you by Bryon? How are you supposed to hold me now? You've been defiled by another man!"

"Hugo," Bay scolds again, harsher this time, smiling and rolling his eyes. "You are too possessive. And you're right, Bryon gave me a job to do, one that I better get to work on. You don't have to come, Hugo, or you, Penryn," he adds, smiling towards me. "But I'd give the De La Flors their space if I were you."

"I'm not leaving you alone with him," Hugo growls. "No matter what you say."

"Hugo." Bay sighs, smiling tenderly at the boy. "I love you too much to even consider this man in any other way as a stranger. I love you enough to understand that your people need you more than I do at the moment. Do you love me enough to let me have my freedom?"

"Why do you twist my words?" Hugo groans, yanking at his hair and rolling his eyes. "Okay, Bay, but if that man tries to make a move on you, I reserve the right to throttle him."

Bay smiles, closing his eyes and tilting his head to one side adorably as he unfurls his shadowy wings. "Don't worry, you won't have to!"

Hugo crows a farewell as the demon lifts off into the air.

I crane my head back, watching as Bay becomes no more than a speck in the sky. Hugo chuckles, watching him go and shading his eyes, a bittersweet smile spread across his face.

"Well, Penryn, he was right," he says at last, interrupting me again from my observations of the De La Flor reunion. "I'd better start consoling our people about the strange demon that could've stuck around for a chat and made this much easier. Instead I got you. Since you were pretty much the only one that spoke to Tallulah, I'm going to need you around too, Penny Poo."

"Seriously, don't call me that," I chastise, cuffing his shoulder.

"Pff. You think you'd have learned something from all of Pigeon-Bat's whining. Hope I won't have to go through the whole shebang with you again."

* * *

"Bryon?"

Pausing in his tracks, the old man sighs, smiling grimly to himself. His eyes seal over for a mere second, brooding about the logic of turning around to face the lonely inquirer. Each lethargic beat of his heart aches more than the last. Slowly, Bryon swivels about to face Lucius, his staff gripped as if it were his lifeline.

Before responding to the inquiry, Bryon allows his gaze to linger nostalgically over his surroundings. The sky is like a burst heart bleeding across the sky, the yellow sun the center of the ensemble with a thousand tails of pink, orange, and red. The dusk's weary gaze bathes the world in shades of gold and black. Against the horizon, the chapel stands out like a shout – as does the sole guardian of the church colored so white it contrasts greatly with the rolling black of the hills.

The church isn't the only thing pure white in color that catches the eye.

"Hello, Lucius." A traditional smile pulls over Bryon's lips. "Can I help you with something?"

"I just noticed that you seem to be slinking off, dear Dragon King," the boy purrs, hiding in the shadow of a willow tree, toying with a deck of cards. "Your wife will be here any second now, to check and see if there's any damage, and to assure human leaders that she was in no way a part of the attempted attack. In fact, your _son_" – with a note of puzzlements, Bryon notes the acidic tone in the word, almost like an accusation – "was quite insistent I excuse her. Why aren't you flocking to the closest public space to flag that one down?"

"The time isn't right yet." Bryon shakes his head slowly. "I hardly want to listen to you right now, Lucius, if you are here to make a mockery of me."

Lucius shakes his head, a certain hastiness to it. "No, no, that's not why I'm here at all. It was a point of interest, a conversation starter, so don't amble off quite yet. I just… I noticed something as I was reading the petty human bible you were transfixed with." He shuffles the deck, lost in his thoughts for a mere moment. "About my father. In Revelations, perhaps the most infamous section."

"Revelations 12?" Bryon questions, his interest piqued. "'Then war broke out in heaven. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon, and the dragon and his angels fought back. But he was not strong enough, and they lost their place in heaven. The great dragon was hurled down – that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray. He was hurled to the earth, and his angels with him.'"

"Yes, that bit, and… the rest of it." Lucius cocks an eyebrow. "Dear Lord, do you have the entire thing memorized? How on earth do you have that much free time? It's just that… it doesn't quite fit. Not only is the time zone completely off, the angels that threw down my father, and… the rest of it that you didn't mention. I don't feel like it's referring to Lucifer."

Bryon laughs deeply. "Well, that's because it's not, child. I think you know who it's about. Why? Are you drawing… parallels?"

Lucius is silent for a moment. "She's watching you right now, isn't she? Watching you from her perch. You're afraid to speak. Is she blackmailing you? Do you have a noose around your throat? Is that why you're acting so bizarre?"

It's as if Bryon cannot swallow, though he tries, though he chokes himself trying. Tears sting the corners of his eyes, tears he dare not allow escape, tears that become all the more difficult to contain as a shadow passes overhead. Abandoning the conversation to watch the tiny she-angel soar overhead like a little sparrow, he whispers a soft, "Not around _my_ neck."

Lucius stares at him as if he'd suddenly began speaking in Greek. After a moment, he looks up to the sky, following Bryon's line of gaze, and tenses.

"Oh." Spite barbs the boy's words. "Of course. You'd sacrifice yourself in a moment, wouldn't you? So it'd be nothing to threaten your life. That's why you haven't leapt into your sweetheart's arms, why you've kept your distance from Penryn, from Paige. I was _wrong_. What a novel concept. No, _she's_ the reason you're so conservative."

Bryon squeezes his eyes shut. A tremor runs through him. "'Then another sign appeared in heaven: an enormous red dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns on its heads. Its tail swept a third of the stars out of the sky and flung them to the earth. The dragon stood in front of the woman who was about to give birth, so that it might devour her child the moment he was born.'"

"Why are you telling me this?" Lucius growls, glaring hotly at him. "I don't want to hear it! I've already read it! Is it for the reader's benefit? Well, then, fuck it! Seven crowns – King of Nephilim, Queen of Nephilim, Messenger, Clockwork Angel! Those we know she already has! Seven heads – one for each time she'd died and been resurrected at the time. Ten horns, one for each of those who she had devoured in mind and soul! She already has three…" Lucius's breathing hitches. "Why do you remind me? Why?"

"'She gave birth to a son,'" Bryon persists steadily, his eyes as dull as clay, "'a male child, who 'will rule all the nations with an iron scepter.' And her child was snatched up to God and to his throne.'"

"Hardly," Lucius mutters with a roll of his eyes.

"'The woman fled to a place in the wilderness to a place prepared for her by God, where she might be taken care of for 1,260 days.'"

"I don't know what that was talking about, God was never there, it was only you," Lucius snarls, turning his back on Bryon. "Quit unlocking my past! It's locked away in the deep recesses of my mind for a reason, Bryon, and you know that."

He does. He does know. And he knows that unlocking such painful times would bring waves of agony beyond words upon a heart so long shriveled, so long hardened. But the agony that beauty grows from. No pain, no gain.

"'The woman was given the two wings of a great eagle, so that she might fly to the place prepared for her in the wilderness, where she would be taken care of for a time, times and half a time, out of the serpent's reach.'"

"A very generous gift from the Clockwork Angel, that bitch," the boy growls.

"'Then from his mouth the serpent spewed water like a river, to overtake the woman and sweep her away with the torrent. But the earth helped the woman by opening its mouth and swallowing the river that the dragon had spewed out of his mouth."

"Noah was the only survivor in that unfortunate country, and I'm mildly certain the Watchers still haven't forgiven you for dousing them," Lucius mumbles darkly. "Apparently, the Pit was a swimming pool for months."

Bryon quells a smile. "'Then the dragon was enraged at the woman and went off to wage war against the rest of her offspring – those who keep God's commands and hold fast their testimony about Jesus.'"

"Well, that's obviously not true," Lucius growls. "I'm an only child, you realize. Believe me, I checked – other than the tombstones until this new era. A special boy, I am, one of a kind."

"You are a special boy." Bryon's lips quirk. "You're already too deeply embedded in this to leave now and escape her wrath, so you might as well pick up where I left off, and not make my mistake. Do not trust in my God." His voice roughens as it quiets, as if whispering a sensitive secret. "You've decided who you're going to be, Lucius. And I'm so proud of you." Bryon blinks a tear from his eye. "But you've bravely chosen the hard and lonely path, a path where going halfway will mean oblivion, not just for you. For us all."

Lucius's eyebrows lift over the lens of his glasses, his way to express emotion without ever actually needing to say a word.

Bryon smiles at the boy's simple response. "No pressure or anything."

* * *

**Okay! Here we are again! **

**Due to certain elements mentioned last chapter, I'm going to have so much difficulty in killing all my characters off. These are my babies. And I'm just now realizing... I don't want them to go. **

**POLL: It's mentioned here and elsewhere that Lucius is the reverse of a Nephilim. He is the offspring of a Fallen angel and (in theory) a human, which (in theory) would be more common than an angelic Nephilim due to the stereotypical rowdy nature of Fallen angels. However, none others have been mentioned, and Lucius most certainly does not represent them in this war. Thoughts?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	58. Chapter Fifty-Seven

**Chapter Fifty Seven**

Hugo breaks into a peal of laughter, tossing back his head and causing his hair jangles to tinkle. He clutches at his stomach, cheeks growing rosy with laughter. "That's the funniest question yet! Humans! Ah, I love us!"

"Trusting Lucius would be a bad idea," I say stiffly to the leader of the camp, a lean, relatively clever man by the name of Maxwell. "In fact, one of the worst ideas out there. Just tolerate his protection for now until he gets bored and moves onto something else."

Hugo wipes a tear from his eye. "No, I think you should trust Lucius! It'd all end well, right, Penryn? That's a perfect plan, Maxwell, I like you!"

Confused, the man furrows his brow. "But… it's a good thing that he's on our side, right?"

Just as it'd begun to quiet, Hugo's laughter revs back to life with twice the volume. I glance at him in concern as he more and more resembles a hyena. He's forced to lean against a tree to regain his balance. People once bustling about in the midst of chores and duties stop and stare at him, confused by such rambunctious laughter in such a dire time. I hiss self-consciously, shooting eye-daggers at him.

"Hugo," chastises Bryon, glaring down at Hugo in a playful reprimand as he approaches with his swinging gait and staff tapping the ground. "You quit being such an ass to a confused human. It's impolite. Hello, good man – Maxwell, wasn't it?"

Maxwell beams at Bryon, his attitude changing entirely. Wrinkles of stress and nervousness vanish upon seeing the Dragon King, instead becoming a broad smile that makes him look almost a decade younger. Shaking Bryon's hand enthusiastically, the man greets him with a giddy, "Hello, Bryon, how have you been? And where?"

"I've been doing alright as one can do in a situation like this." Bryon laughs, the sound of it warming me from head to toe like a cup of hot cocoa. "I've just been wandering – old habit, I suppose."

"Old habits die hard," Maxwell says, nodding. "That I can understand. Well, I hope you'll stick around for a bit longer, your friends aren't exactly making themselves patent. Your information, Hugo, is all conflicting."

"Life is conflicting," Hugo murmurs, clawing at the air like a poet, half-shutting his eyes in the bliss of the imitation.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." I smack him across the cheek flippantly. "Focus, why don't you? We're at war here."

"With ourselves," he sighs, blinking moonily at me. "We're at war with ourselves…"

"You'll have to excuse him," Bryon says good-naturedly, taking pity upon the poor, puzzled Maxwell. "I never had the heart to take him to a mental institution. However, discussing your guardian is the last thing on my list today, considering the circumstances. I don't think humanity has to suffer with being guarded, safe only because of another's will, so I've bent the heavens to allow for your independence."

"What do you mean?" Maxwell questions, his aura changing from lost and helpless to sharp as a razor. "You already've brought us more than we can handle with nothing in return. Not that I'm complaining, but there's no such thing as a free lunch, as they say…"

"This isn't a free lunch." Bryon's eyebrow quirks, threatening to rise. "I'm getting something out of it, too. Keeping humanity alive is just as much an interest to me as it is to you. And for that, I've pulled a few strings and gathered up the most destructive bullets on the face of the Earth for this settlement."

Hugo's head snaps up, the focusing of his eyes reminding me all-too-much of a pair of binoculars. "You did not."

"Did not what?" I look from Nephilim to boy curiously.

"I did." Bryon turns on heel, waving us after him. "I had Emilio fetch us a small quantity of what more we shall bring. Come, follow me, I will explain."

"What do you mean, the most destructive bullets?" Maxwell asks, looking acutely interested. "Are they some sort of bombs? Are they explosive? You can't just make a claim like that then hold your tongue!"

"If you'd allow me a chance to speak, I'd gladly explain." Bryon shoots me an amused glance, smiling tightly, as if trying not to act belittling to Maxwell. "I take it that you're aware that the angels are severely allergic to a certain type of metal, correct?"

"Their swords," he recalls, nodding importantly. "I've heard a few rumors – then the only way to kill them is with one of their own swords?"

"Well, with a weapon made of the special metal, yes." My uncle's smile widens. "Unless your name is Penryn Young" – he nudges me with his staff – "an angel sword would actually prove quite useless as a method to kill one of the bastards. That said, the bullets we've given to Obadiah in the past are more alloy than the metal, each holding half the potency of an angel sword. It's partially because the pure substance is so powerful and so rare, and to waste it on bullets that probably won't all hit their mark is ridiculous."

"What's the pure substance?" Maxwell wonders. "Is it radioactive? I never was one for chemistry, but it seems you're talking about something that our scientists aren't aware of."

"That's cuz they're not." Hugo grins wolfishly. "We did a good job keeping this world sealed off from the peoples' knowledge. The pure substance is pretty goddamn rare, and very deep in the earth. Not to mention absolutely toxic to every creature with angel blood, even Fallen angels and most demons. Anything above an eighth of angel blood in their veins – that includes you, Penryn – that gets poisoned by it dies. Anything lower than that results in severe fevers and eventual recovery."

As my blood runs cold, Maxwell eyes me with polite interest. "Like mercury, a bit?"

"Like mercury, yeah," Hugo concurs.

"Of course, the angels, being primarily affected by their one biological downfall," Bryon tells, "mixed their blades with an alloy so long ago. No one's quite sure how they did it, and they don't remember back so far, so it's a more or less mystery. Mystery also surrounds the origin of the metal; we rely more on legend than we do fact. A popular theory is that it was the skeleton of a great beast that died upon the world's creation, and we merely forge our weapons out of its fossils. My personal favorite is that the tears of the stars saturated the ground as they saw the destruction the angels reaped and gave the Sons and Daughters of Men a way to fight back."

"I hope you understand that I choose to base my beliefs on fact rather than fiction." Maxwell's tone is scathing.

"Dude, there are pigeon people flying around in the sky and beating up people in tanks with living knives," Hugo grunts. "The lines between fact and fiction are _just slightly_ blurred."

"No, he has a point." Bryon smiles pleasantly. "It's good to keep a firm grip upon reality even in the midst of utter chaos. Wherever it comes from, though, Maxwell, I urge you to treat it with utmost respect. Emilio! Here!"

Slipping from the shadows like a poised lynx, Emilio pads forward, his face betraying his uneasiness. I smile at him and wave, but he doesn't smile back, doesn't even seem to recognize me. In his arms, he carries a crate, but with the tenderness he treats it with, it might as well be a wild animal, or a pack of dynamite, maybe even a nuclear bomb. Eyeing the box distrustfully, he sets it down at Bryon's feet without a word, quickly retreating back to a safe distance.

My skin prickles as Bryon nods wordlessly to Emilio and pries open the lid. Inside, the bullets look surprisingly ordinary, their only distinguishably feature their glinting silver surfaces. However, as gingerly as Bryon selects one and holds it up to his eye, inspecting it with the greatest of care, I get the feeling that there's a little more than meets the eye.

"I think they should be the right size for your guns." Bryon chuckles, rolling the bullet between his thumb and index fingers. "Frankly, I've never shot a gun more modern than a redcoat's musket, so I've got no idea how you measure these things. Never been shot by one, either. I'm almost curious what a modern bullet feels like."

"Trust me," Maxwell says with a gruff chuckle, admiring the bullet from afar with a burning admiration in his gaze, "you're better off not knowing. Why are you delivering these weapons of mass destruction to us and not to Obi? I'm not completely sure I can accept these."

Bryon tosses it up in the air and catches it nimbly – his back is to Emilio, so he doesn't see the way the Spaniard flinches at the bullet's silver arch, but I certainly do. Could it really be so potent a metal that Emilio shies from it? I glare at the bullets, wondering if I, too, should be pressed up against a wall.

"A larger package is being delivered to Obadiah as we speak." Bryon's eyebrows arch. "I figured you'd need them immediately, living in the shadow of belligerent he-angels as you are. They will render your army much more foreboding to the armies of Heaven. Remember not to waste them – they're mighty powerful, these little bullets. A single one can give an archangel an allergic reaction strong enough to take him out for the count."

"Was it one of these that took the Gabriel one out, then?" Maxwell inquires sharply. His eyes glitter with piercing intelligence and disgust. "One of these that started this hell?"

Bryon is quiet for a second, as if pondering what to respond to such condemning words with. "Yes, it was, but with one skilled marksman, it can be one of these that end the apocalypse, too."

* * *

"I can't get in there." Sariel beams from the other side of some invisible line, pacing in place, his eyes sparkling with gold. "I'll be turned into a Son of Man, remember?"

"Well, what's so bad about that?" Thea wonders, slinging both legs over her wolf's side and taking another bite out of her pear. "I think I'd like to see you as a Son of Man. You wouldn't be able to guzzle beer all day if you wanted to keep that perfect body of yours."

"I do not guzzle beer every day!" he retorts, his grin growing wider.

"Right, just most days, forgive me." Kicking her legs lazily from atop Cara, her wolf, Thea smiles. "What are you going to do when you run out of beer? There's no more breweries, you know. It's not just a hop, skip, and a jump to the next canteen of alcohol."

"It was never for the alcohol," Sariel says chidingly, shaking a finger at her. "I drink for the taste! The taste is magnificent! The high is just an added bonus! And you talk like I'm addicted – I can drop it at any time, you know!"

She arches her brow, smiling again. "Can you, now? I dare you too. I dare you."

Sariel's smile fades slightly. "…Maybe another time. We've got festivities planned for tonight! Everybody's going to be there, you know. Even Ms. De La Flor smuggled another lamb for us! Celebrating Lucius's… well, I guess we're celebrating the fact that the asshole saved this town, but he's not invited, so go figure. Everyone else is, though, even you and me!"

Thea laughs, allowing the warmth of security envelope her heart. Despite Cara's throaty grunt of disapproval, Thea slips from the wolf's back and strides towards her husband, much to his delight.

"A party just wouldn't be a party without you, would it, Lion Cub?"

"Lion Cub?" Sariel's lips twitch up. "You've spent too much time around Hugo. Have you seen him – or anyone else in that little group – around, actually? I need to get them coming along. It wouldn't be the same without Bay! Or Bryon! I wish he'd let Hugo drink…"

Thea laughs, twining her arms around her husband's neck. "Bryon's being a good father, Sariel, something you taught him. If I remember correctly, you pummeled our son the first time you found him drinking underage." She plants a kiss at the corner of his lips. "Besides, they've all gone back to the aerie – Bryon, Penryn, Paige, Hugo, the likes. They even smuggled Bay in somehow."

"Smuggle me in, then?" he pleads with big golden eyes, sweeping her hair from her face. "Please? I want this to be a big family gathering! With Paige and Hugo and – everyone we've already listed!" He lowers his voice slightly. "I've invited Audiat, so I've got to make sure Bryon comes, too, because he's taking his precious time. They need to get over each other."

"I suppose I can arrange something." Thea pecks at his lips again. "But count me out. I'm not one for drinking around an open fire. Somehow, Satan always ends up getting summoned, every damn time."

"Oh, please!" Sariel touches his nose against hers, sulking and wrapping her in his wings. "I said it was a family gathering! You and I are the heads of this family! You can't just leave the Youngs crippled, can you? You wouldn't do that to your own family! To me!"

"Fine." She puts a finger to his lips to silence his words. "On one condition – not a single drink for you, mister. Not. One."

Sariel twists his lips into a cute little pout, but he reluctantly nods, kissing her finger as he does so. "Okay, okay, you win. But remember, you've got to stick the whole thing out!"

"You, too, mister! Don't let me catch you breaking the rules. There'll be hell to pay!"

* * *

"How did you get ahold of that?" Audiat wonders, appearing at Hugo's side and resting her head on his quilt, almost as if she attempts to imitate Scruffy while his position is vacant. "That is a video log from Laylah, isn't it? She doesn't share those with anybody!"

Hugo stifles an amused snort, rolling his eyes. "Stupid bitch uploaded it onto Google Drive."

"But – but she doesn't share the files with anybody, either!" Audiat protests, the stubbornness in her voice blockading any further argument, a blockade Hugo simply itches to demolish.

"If it's on Google Drive," Bay calls from the bathroom, his face in the mirror almost completely devoid of shaving cream, "it's as good as his."

It's not truly annoyance that strums at Hugo's heartstrings, something more akin to pride, more akin to warmth, his mind reveling in the realization that Bay knows him so well that he can quote sayings as stale as that.

"What he said." Though baited by the promise of cheery debate with his boyfriend, Hugo doesn't press the conversation further. "So, yeah, stupid bitch mistake number one. I even have the files of her basically molesting Pigeon-Bat's hacked-off wings for 'science' reasons, I guess. That is one messed up slut – Viper is too tame a codename for her. I can show you those, if you'd like."

Audiat makes a face that would cause Bryon to melt into the floor, wrinkling her nose and pulling back at her lips. "No thank you. The one you were viewing, the Gabriel one, I want to see that. What is it? What was she doing?"

Hugo smiles, clicking the restart button and allowing the video to buffer as he speaks. "That is a big piece to the puzzle, I believe, of what happened with Gabriel. I'm not sure how it fits yet, but it definitely does. It's creepy as hell. Reminds me almost of a demonic possession… that doesn't have an ending with sunlight."

Audiat opens her mouth to respond, but before she can, Laylah's beautiful face replaces the spinning grey circle, the poor light casting malevolent shadows over her cheekbones and darkening her eyes.

"Is it on? Yes, it is." The she-angel adjusts herself in front of the camera, tossing her platinum hair over her shoulder. With a hushed voice and furtive glances behind her, Laylah launches into her journal entry, sounding spooked and suspicious.

"I was instructed never to share this information with anyone," she whispers, glancing hesitantly down at the keyboard. "I was supposed to keep this secret until I died. And I suppose I still will be keeping it… hopefully. But before I forget, while these incidents are still clear in my mind, I need to report them to something. And now that Gabriel's passed… anyway.

"As the Messenger's personal physicians, in the past, I have had to work with many, many strange cases. But this is most definitely the strangest of them all, and, the most bizarre thing is, I don't even know what to call it. Possession, insanity, godly influence… it's lost upon me. I have no idea where I'd even start to look for an explanation, nor should I bring it up to someone in case I get chained up with the crazy whores. However, I believe that whatever I have witnessed, whatever it is that began last time we descended to Earth in hope of Judgment Day, is somehow linked to the way he died and the reason we're here.

"It started out with small things. I'd notice peculiar things in his quarters when I'd come and give him checkups, like the way he'd talk to himself, or sometimes refer to himself in third person. Every so often, he'd get this look in his eyes like he wasn't there. And his dreams were always turbulent. Living just next door as I was, I could hear him through the walls, shouting things that made no sense to me, praying and chanting in foreign languages, mumbling about the power coursing through his veins. I said nothing, of course, as nutty nighttime behavior is hardly uncommon among archangels – Titaniel sleeps with his eyes open, Raphael sleep-fights, and Michael's preferred method of shuteye is to sleep naked on a beanbag, and Reuel does… whatever the hell he does. Next to them, it seemed quite tame.

"But then things grew more severe, slowly, slowly over time. He began sounding like he was in pain in his sleep, crying out for the agony to end, the power to quit flowing through his veins, shrieking sometimes. I'd ask him about it, and he'd clam up, he wouldn't say a word other than that it was for my good. Needless to say, I grew suspicious, and so I began to spy on him, to eavesdrop on his conversations.

"Most of the time, those conversations were with himself. Or, at least I think they were with himself. If there was someone else there… he was the only one with a heartbeat."

Audiat whimpers softly at that.

"He would talk to himself, mostly about power, I assume. From what I've derived from the halves of the conversations I've heard, whatever fantasy he conjured up would grant him promises. Promises he would carry out, of course. I do not believe that he once sent down an angel without talking to himself about it. Here, right in front of me, I have half a conversation for when Remliel was sent down to his doom.

"'But one already chases down the monkey! There should be no reason –' Pause. 'No! Not Azrael! He would never fall into such filth!' Pause. 'It cannot be true!' Pause. 'Are you absolutely certain it is so?' Pause. '…Very well. Shall I send someone to finish him off?' Pause. 'Are you absolutely sure? Surely an Fallen Angel of Death would be – !' Pause. 'Very well. I shall send one of my angels to their doom and leave it at that.' That marked the end of the conversation. The next day, Remliel was dispatched, and I haven't heard anything about him since.

"If the behavior would've stopped there, it might've been bearable. I don't understand how no one else found out about it – or maybe they did, and his demons just quieted them in the same way they managed to quiet such a fiery, headstrong man. I would awaken in the middle of the night to him shrieking for it to be gone, that he would have it no longer. I would inspect him in his checkups and find that he'd dragged his nails across his own skin roughly enough to bleed, clawing at his heart, his stomach, and around his mouth. Sometimes, he would destroy furniture, leaving it splintered about. Other times, I'd walk in to find that he'd carved an awful sketch of something that looked like a cross between a snake and a donkey into the hardwood floors. Whenever I asked, he clammed up.

"I don't know why I never spoke up. The one explanation he ever did offer me during the beginning stages of his madness was that God was truly conversing with him. He said that sometimes, the power would be too much for him. I suppose, if that was the case, it truly drove him mad.

"I would hear him laugh all night long – a soulless, empty laugh, like someone hitting the inside of a trash can with a stick all through the sleeping hours. Whenever I went into his room, he would jump at shadows – and the shadows, the shadows would move on their own. I would walk in on him talking to fires with a glazed look in his eyes, and when he put the fires out, nothing appeared to have changed on whatever they were burning. He led immaculately, better than ever, but there was something rather lacking in his spirit, as if he were being drained. I was the only one that seemed to notice.

"Once, I caught him in the midst of one of his arguments. It was the first time I'd ever heard him actually screaming at the thing – and the first time I realized that there actually might be something there. I realized that he was lying to me to protect me, too." Laylah takes in a shuddery breath. "I still don't know what I saw in there. I still don't want to know.

"Gabriel's screams were heartbreaking. He wouldn't stop shouting about how he could still be useful, about how he could still be valued by the… the thing, about how he couldn't believe it could just throw him aside like an old, bent sword. He screamed that he wouldn't let it throw aside his angels, imploring that it please didn't hurt his angels. Anything but his angels. Take his heart, his soul, his sword, but leave his angels."

Laylah takes another deep breath and buries her face in her hands, her distress written in the unkemptness of her usually quite poised elegance.

"I don't know what I saw that day," she admits quietly. "I peeked inside, curious at what he was talking to, and only saw enough to see these two blazing eyes. I can't even remember what they really looked like. I only remember that they were _awful_. If they were God's eyes, I would accept it without question, but I can only pray that my God is nowhere near as terrible as they were. Such terrible, terrible beauty… looking into them, I understood my own mortality, as bizarre as it sounds for an immortal creature. I understood how little I am, and was crushed under the knowledge of the everything in this world.

"Just one glance, a glance lasting no longer than a second, and my heart fell to my shoes and shattered, my stomach tied into a thousand knots, and all my consciousness faded. My knees buckled, and I woke up a few hours later in my own bed, as if nothing had ever happened, with only a searing memory in my mind of those terribly beautiful eyes.

"I lost my courage to face whatever it was in there with him. I listened to the arguments for many more years as they became less arguments and more soft, pathetic pleas, like those of a captured, wounded soldier just wanting to return home.

"The century leading up to our arrival was by far the worst. He would cry to himself, he would mumble to himself, he would look into the mirror and growl at his reflection whether I was in the room or not, he would curse himself, and he would scratch at himself hard enough to unearth nerves and bone. Days would pass where he wouldn't come out from his room, wouldn't say a word. I don't know what he did then. The only time his activity spiked again was in the last decade before his untimely demise.

"He would cry out for the force like a man in withdrawal. He would whine, saying that he was as good a conduit as any other. He would scream that he was better than any other man, better than anything else they could be offered. He would wail and call out for the force's advice on decisions, no matter how small. I'd grown comfortable with the silence, so at first, it terrified me. But such activities were always confined to his room, and no one knew of them. Or, if they did, they kept to themselves about it.

"The day before we descended, the day he announced 'God's' sudden decision on our descent, he awoke me at an early hour in the morning, shouting about how he did not deserve this, that he would make his own decision. He ordered whatever it was to begone, and then fell silent. I did not hear him speak and seldom heard the beat of his heart until he emerged from his room. And then I believe I witnessed another strange phenomenon."

Laylah chews at her lip, gazing off into the distance.

"I don't believe it was a trick of the light, but then again, what do I know? I swear, however, that his eyes, usually so beautifully green, were different, but only for a split second. In that split second, as he swung open his door to me, his face was utterly emotionless as well, leading to the appeal of something other than what I can even fathom. But I swear – _I swear – _his eyes were different, with hardly any pupil and even less white. One, I remember seeing clear as day, a bright, electric blue in color, eerily so, like the pale color of the sky in the first few hours of the day. The other I did not see so well, but I could swear it glinted, sparkled. A single blink, and they were gone, returning to the usual green. But it _was_ there. It _was_.

"That night, that night which was otherwise humming with excitement and reeking of beer as people celebrated returning to the land of prosperity below on the morrow, he was so silent. I returned to my quarters early to eavesdrop on him, but he was so… so dead. I did not hear anything more than the rasp of his breathing and the lethargic thumping of his weary heart. Never mind, I did hear one thing – a sickeningly quiet, harrowingly emotionless word. 'Goodnight.' And that was practically the last I heard of him."

Laylah rubs at her nose, stifling a yawn.

"I do personally believe that there was something in there with him, tormenting him, something I don't ever want to learn about. Whatever it was, Gabriel was far out of his league by attempting to take it on. Wherever it is now… well, it's probably latched onto another poor soul. I don't know what could merit a better position than Gabriel, the Messenger of the Angels, but I don't know anything that could've done that to him, either.

"I hope this'll help shed some light upon something in the future. If not… well, this is Laylah, signing off."

Hugo turns with a grin to Audiat, not taking into account her horrified expression, nor the fact that her hands quiver ever so slightly. "We've got a murder mystery, see? Whatever this creature thing was, it was after Gabriel! If we find the creature, we find the archangel murderer! Capiche?"

Sometime during the speech, Audiat had turned a sickly shade of green, staring despondently at the screen. Hugo turns to her, frowning.

"Bay!" he calls. "Bay, I need you, something's wrong…"

Hugo hardly has the time to blink before the benevolent shadow hangs above him. Though a question forms on Bay's lips, the giant doesn't seem to have to ask it – he crouches beside Audiat, resting a hand on her wings. A smile that spreads to the very pits of his concerned black eyes warms Hugo's cheeks, even if his boyfriend's attention happens to be focused elsewhere.

"Audiat?" Bay croons, tracing shapes over her wings. "What's wrong? Did Hugo show you something disturbing?"

"No heartbeat," she whispers frailly. "I – I saw something, I don't know what, when I was alone with Bryon's body. It was like a living shadow, and its eyes – even though all I saw was the shadow – they were awful, just the shadow. It threatened me and then – then it just vanished. What – what is it?"

"It _threatened_ you?" Bay echoes, outraged.

"What did it look like?" Hugo interrogates, delighted.

"It looked like a shadow." A nervous laugh shakes Audiat, and she sinks into Bay's arms, glancing about fearfully. "That's all I saw of it. Its shadow. And it… it was terrifying. It was after Raphael. It wanted… wanted to know where he was."

Both Bay and Hugo remain caught in a stunned silence for a few moments.

"What did you tell it?" Bay asks, unfurling a wing to wrap little Audiat up in a greater embrace.

"The truth." Audiat shrugs against him, looking traumatized. "I don't know where Raphael is in this building, even to this day. It's… probably not good, I should probably figure that out. But… do you think he's safe?"

"Well, he hasn't been attacked yet," Hugo chuckles, rolling his eyes. "We'd be the first to know, remember. Well, actually, that'd be Penryn, but she hasn't mentioned anything yet, so I assume the coast is clear."

* * *

"What are you doing?"

The beautiful blonde angel's head snaps ups, the light shining over her hair and turning it to flaxen gold. Hatred boils in my stomach at the sight of those cynical blue eyes, clear like glass, and sharp like it, too. Straightening herself, Laylah splays a single hand across the chest of the dead angel she'd been leaned over, clutching a scalpel with her other hand.

"That door was locked for a reason," she says coolly, regarding my uncle with a spiteful twinkle. "I will not tolerate interruptions during an important autopsy. Leave, or it won't be his chest I'll be slicing into."

I open my mouth to retort hotly, fury long-buried awakening as memories flood back to me. This bitch had cut off Raffe's wings when he'd come to her for good, honest help. She's probably more despicable than the dead body she's working on.

Those cold blue eyes swing to glare my way, and, after a moment of hesitance, I close my mouth. It's all I can do to stomach the smug smile twitching at the corners of my lips. As long as she doesn't recognize me – and I'm rather confident she won't – I can surprise her at any time I choose. Rage pounds at my heart as another image of Raffe's anguished face flickers over my mind's eye. She doesn't know the monster she's awakened.

"Step away from that body, Laylah," Bryon says, his voice just as cool. "Don't touch him. You know not with what you meddle."

"Don't I?" Laylah glances once up at him, drawing her lips into a thin line, before dipping the scalpel downwards and carefully cleaving into Gabriel's flesh. "I will not tolerate this interruption. This is your last warning."

"And this is yours." A low growl builds in the pit of Bryon's throat, but his voice sounds strained, as if begging. "You don't want to do this. Please. Let me help you. If you take a step back, and let me help you, I can still save –"

He stiffens, throwing out a hand towards her, and, for a moment, everything seems to freeze.

The muted sunlight seems to undulate gently in the air, as if streaming through the translucent wings of a golden butterfly. It haloes Laylah's face and almost veils her expression of terror in the soft, velvety black of its shadows. The tenderest of breezes twines around the room, toying with the satiny curtains, caressing my rosy cheek, and lifting Bryon's cloak so that it flutters ever so slightly around his ankles, like the meager waves that lap upon the ocean shore. Upon that breeze rides the scent of pungent death and freshly spilled blood, the shadows not hiding the starburst of vivid ruby erupting from the angel's chest, the sunlight catching the beauty of the scarlet as it dangles like stars in the air.

Laylah screams once.

I stumble backwards, groping blindly for the handle of the door only to find that it'd locked behind us. My heart hammers in my chest. I want to tear my eyes away so badly, _so very badly_, but I can't. Each breath I take is more erratic than the last.

It reminds me of a person working a loom, almost, or a needle driving itself again and again through a piece of fabric. The blur of red-stained skin driving through flesh time after time, keeping its victim immobilized and helpless, causes my blood to run cold. Perhaps even worse is that I've seen this kill before. I've seen this style of murder.

At last, the hideous sounds cease, and a creature leaps from Laylah's chest onto Gabriel's. As if my horror had not yet been fulfilled, it tosses up something small and bloody into the air, something that seems to still be pounding.

It is, I realize as the organ spins in a graceful arch in the air. It _is_ still pounding, I realize, frozen as warm blood spritz across my cheek, shed from the pumping arteries of the beating heart.

Laylah's mangled body thumps lifelessly to the floor in the same instant that her heart disappears down the gullet of the creature. It leaps into the air and, with a meaty smack of its jaws, devours her life. In that moment, Laylah the Beautiful is no more.

"Stay behind me!" Bryon orders in a callous tone of voice, flinging one of his hands back to twine comfortingly through mine. Though I'm not certain how the staff he holds between us and the creature can defend us against such deft skill and swift ferocity, it pampers my nerves slightly, his hand on mine. The rapid curl of his horns growing over the crests of his ears also serves its part in that comfort as he begins the slow transformation into beast.

The creature shakes out its pelt, scales rattling against each other with a noise as irritating as nails on a chalkboard. As if there hadn't been enough already, blood sprinkles the area in a thousand little crimson speckles. Puffing out a huge breath through its nose, the creature arches its neck and opens its horrible, horrible eyes.

_Do not make me punish you further for insubordination, little dragon._

I resist screaming at the tumultuous pressure in my brain. Groaning, I double over, clutching the hand that isn't gripped tightly by Bryon up to my temple. Still, through watering eyes, I keep my gaze locked firmly upon the creature sitting there.

"Theobella?" I croak, heart sinking to my shoes.

It's not quite her, though – there's something different in her frame in her body. Whereas Theobella and Belle had both been slender and lithe, this one, though not brawny by any accord, has more muscle packed beneath painfully bright calico scales, and is considerably larger, perhaps the size of a Maine Coon to Belle's tiny kitten. Her legs are longer, less nimble and more muscled, as if she walks instead of slithers. From broad shoulders sprouts her long, elegant neck, and her head swallowed by those large, terrible eyes, so beautiful and yet so, so physically wrong.

_Step aside._

"You will not take her from me," Bryon snarls gutturally, his muscles bundling in preparation for a strike. "Not her. Not anyone. Not anymore."

_I did not come here to bicker. Step aside. Another word, and it shall be your teeth ripping into her throat._

"You wouldn't dare!" Bryon whispers lividly. Every muscle in his body tenses in preparation for a fight.

"Who are you?" I whisper, my words no more than a soft breath.

Her beautiful eyes swing ominously to mine, that killing gaze turning my blood to ice, making my knees buckle. Like a deer in the headlights, I cannot move, paralyzed.

_Call me Theobella. _

* * *

**It's hitting the fan. **

**POLL: Thoughts on Bay – specifically on his character and his traits. I personally like him quite a lot and I've heard that one of you does as well. The rest?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	59. Chapter Fifty-Eight

**Chapter Fifty Eight**

"So, it was you all along," Bryon snarls. "You drove that archangel around like a puppeteer, moving his lips and forcing his words. Not only did you suck everything away from Gabriel that made him so incredible in the first place, but you sucked up all of Gabriel at all."

_Is this what you wish to discuss? _Her bronze whip of a tail slashes through the air, so astonishingly bright it causes me to wince. _Delaying the inevitable? Very well, then. It was I, yes, that ordered many of the things Gabriel was accredited for. He truly did receive whispers from the Lord. Little did he know 'twas not his God. _

"So ever since then, you've just been sitting in that carcass, awaiting rediscovery?" he asks.

_Why do anything else? After some gracious assistance from you, the wolf kept coming with more and more offerings, stimulating my mind and feeding me her little servants. She didn't expect me craving more than they could offer. Pathetic creature. _

"Why?" Bryon demands, squeezing my hand tighter – as he does so, my mind soothes, the ache caused by Theobella's presence diminished. "Why did you bring the angels down? Why then of all times, in the midst of that sprawling human majesty?"

_They had to be united. _

"…Excuse me?"

_My parents. I simply noticed that her life was slipping by, and his was being wasted upon alcohol. They needed to be tipped in the right direction, else I never exist. _

"So you started an apocalypse." Bitterness bites deep into Bryon's voice. "Great idea. Very romantic. Do you even realize what you have done? Does that massive loss of life even affect you? The heartbreak? Are you even fazed?"

A shiver runs down its spine, causing its long scales to jangle frighteningly. _Such circumstances were required. I need not explain myself to you. _

Bryon snorts. "Because you've got no argument whatsoever. There's something I teach to all of my students before I take them on as trainees: you must first understand the value of a human life before you are qualified to take it. This disgusting rate of casualty is unacceptable."

_People die all the time. I don't understand your fuss about it. They will be stunted for a few years, maybe even a century – but who truly cares? Tell me, when was the last time humans fussed over the hive of bees that was half wiped out one year? The herd of deer that were almost annihilated that one time? The rare weeds picked from a garden? They shall grow back. It matters not. _

"You have no understanding of emotion!"

_And yet, strangely, here I am with the upper hand. _She almost seems to smile, lifting that slender head and centering the sun's rays between her two horns. _Certainly over you, it would seem. You are hardly one to scold the loss of human life. Perhaps my memory fails me, but was it not you that pulled the trigger and unleashed the wrath of the heavens upon the earth?_

Bryon flinches as if she'd slapped him.

"That was not me!" he snarls, bowing his head, baring his teeth. "It was not! It was…"

_It was what, Bryon? How amused you make me when you sit here and stammer! Do not even attempt to spare yourself. 'Twas your finger. 'Twas your aim. Take responsibility for your actions. _

"Bryon?" I focus on him, blinking repeatedly. "What's she talking about?

_Has he not told you yet? _As if I were facing Lucius, when those great eyes swing to meet my gaze, I slam my eyelids shut and swallow nervously, terrified of her crawling up and sitting upon my shoulder. _How strange. He obviously knows of his role in this, and yet he has not informed you. Does he not try to push you away? His personality would indicate to such a response – oh. _

Through the slits between my eyelids I can still see out of, I watch a slow, nasty grin spread over her face, baring teeth as white as Lucius's skin, so wide and menacing it seems to devour her entire face. Her tail thrashes thrice upon the body of Gabriel, as if a smacking her knee with laughter. Brindled wings fold and unfold.

_Do you still cling onto the belief that it was a bad dream that tormented your sleep? I assure you, dear Bryon, I am so much more real than a nightmare. _The scales on her mane bristle, standing on end in a beautiful ray of copper and gold, shimmering around her head like the beams of sunlight. _But that is of little concern. _Almost quicker than they'd spread, the layers of scales flatten against her neck. _After all, if your friends, your family know… what difference would it make if you refused to accept your wrongs as your own? _

Again, her tail slaps against the bare chest of Gabriel. Chills climb up the nuque of my neck, and I can't shake the feeling that something's happened.

"There you are!" Bryon snarls, his voice riddled with emotions I've never heard there before – desperation, imploring desperation, and a great sense of noble submission. "You've made it clear to all the monster you made me become – why torment me further? It's worse than any other pain you could possibly inflict!"

Her head cocks, the movement almost mechanical, like a windup doll. _Is it truly? I shall have to find that out._

* * *

"Look at that!" Audiat gasps breathily, jabbing a finger at the screen. "Look! A video popped up!"

"Yes, that's the magic of computers," Hugo explains patiently, not bothering to turn to her, instead transfixed with Bay as the Fallen angel stares longingly out the window, watching the golden afternoon light slowly deepen and darken, becoming orange as evening extends its first few salutations over the land. It richens the color his skin and adds splices of brilliant color to his midnight eyes.

Audiat sighs tediously. "I know that, Hugo, I'm not an old maid! But – I've never seen this video of Bryon before! Is that… Gabriel, there in the background?"

"What?" Ripped from his daydreaming, Hugo turns, looking at the screen. "Whoa – holy shit! The fuck did this come from?"

"I – I don't know!" Audiat waves her hands around in a panic. "What… what the hell?"

Hugo shushes her by clapping a hand over her mouth, watching the video intensely. The video shakes slightly, as if unbalanced in its placement or held by shivering hands. It pans from Gabriel to another figure, this one of Bryon, sitting close to the camera, perched upon a rooftop. Without even seeing longer than a few seconds of the grainy footage, Hugo can tell there's something wrong, because Bryon doesn't move like that, and he definitely doesn't know how to load a gun.

"Oh, Lord," Audiat mumbles against his hand, her horror muffled yet still steeped with dread.

"No way," Hugo whispers. "No! No, he hasn't even really ever picked up a gun, and he's never aimed one. Never loaded one! No, no, no, no…"

"He seems to be loading and aiming that one very well," Bay says darkly, appearing behind Hugo and resting a hand of comfort upon his shoulder. "Did you see his eyes there? In that shot? Go back a few seconds, pause."

Hugo's fingers shake on the keyboard. He mutters beneath his breath, not regulating the words that come out, not truly registering them, either, but by the way Bay's grip on his shoulder only grows tighter, he assumes that it can't be good.

"What the hell?" Audiat squeaks. "Oh, no, oh, no, I bet it's the same thing that ate up Gabriel! Remember what she said about his eyes?"

"One blue." Bay gently sets a finger on the screen, tapping twice at the dragon's face. "The other gleaming. Blue and bronze. That's similar, but I'm not seeing any other similarities. Bryon doesn't talk in his sleep. He doesn't scream."

"But he goes on midnight walks all the time," Hugo says slowly. "And he always has this eerie way of keeping calm. Sometimes, his decisions cause skeptics to cock eyebrows. Like his decision to bait Lucius out of his cage and into the action. He _used_ Penryn to do that. That… doesn't sound anything like Bryon."

"And the holy fire." Audiat's eyes shimmer in fear. "Remember what she said? She would find him talking to fires that didn't burn. That's Bryon's holy fire. I've seen him talking to them before. I've talked to them before. It's his darn insignia – a staff enveloped in holy fire."

Hugo begins to shiver. "The thing would need to take out Gabriel so he didn't blab. It might've needed another host to use as a scapegoat. And it might need another host even after that. Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ. Oh, God."

"Unpause it," Audiat squeaks through quick, tiny breaths.

Bay's hand leaves his shoulder for a few seconds, leaving Hugo otherwise frozen as his fingers move shakily to double-click the triangle. He quivers like a leaf in a gale, watching the king aim the gun from the roof. Just as the awful gunshot echoes out of his speakers, the Fallen angel's hand returns, and this time, he brings with him a paper bag. Audiat nearly snatches it from his hands.

She makes unholy noises into the bag as she slips off the bed, falling with a thump to the ground. Unfurling her wings and curling them around her, Hugo only half-hears the tearful, shocked cries, and the crinkle of the bag folding and unfolding.

"It was him," Hugo whispers in horror, a lump forming in his throat. He leans back into Bay, his hands desperately clawing towards him, making fists around his boyfriend's shirt. "That's why I could never find out who it was. It. Was. Him. Holy shit, Bay, holy shit, the thing's going to kill him, just like it did Gabriel. That is, if the angry human mobs don't get to him first."

Bay's arms wrap around Hugo, the tight bands of muscled stirring fluidly beneath his velvety soft skin. "Have faith." Gently, he presses a kiss to the top of Hugo's head, his tickling breath softly wafting through his hair. "We don't know for sure. Just know that your uncle loves you very, very much. He'll do anything to keep you safe. He'll fight for you."

"He can't." Shock spreads over Hugo as a sob causes his body to spasm. "Don't you see that? He can't. Or he would've told us, he would've… he would've… he wouldn't have done any of that!"

"Then we'll fight for him." Bay pets at Hugo's hair, peppering gentle flurries of kisses along his exposed hairline. "Stay strong, Hugo. Stay strong. If this is true, then our toughest playing piece has been eliminated, so we all must now stay strong."

"We can't let him know that we know," Audiat whispers quickly, then returning back to her bag. "It might do terrible things to him."

"Do what?" Sariel pipes up curiously. "Who? Are you crying?"

* * *

"Bryon?" My voice quavers. "What's going on? Who is that? …It's not really Theobella, is it?"

"No." His grip on my hand almost becomes crushing, and I can feel the emotion he struggles to send through the gesture – his rage, his hatred, his self-pity. "No, not anymore. That's not anything you and I know. It may call itself Theobella, but it's even worse. It's a thousand times worse."

"What is it?" I squeak, not really sure I want to know the answer.

_An heir to the throne of heaven. _Theobella's nasty grin grows larger, showing pink gums from which her ivory teeth grow from. _In other words, I could be your next God. I would show respect, but of course, that's only my opinion. _

"Don't listen to her," Bryon says assuagingly, his bronze eyes turning to mine and trapping me in their gentle whirlpools of emotion. He smiles, and I feel the instinctive sense of terror, the part of me that wants to creep into a corner and hide and weep the apocalypse away, begin to fade away, melting into a pile of mush inside of me.

_Hold your tongue or I shall rip it from you. _

I study the dragon fearfully, still subtly trying to open the door, uncertain why it'd locked in the first place. Her bronze eye seems to glow brighter than her blue, caught in the rays of sunlight like a mirror, more brilliant than a gem of any sort. Luckily, the awful smile has faded from her face, replaced again by the eerily serene expression.

"Who the hell do you think you are," I whisper, shaking my head slowly, "threatening Bryon like that?"

A second after the words exit my mouth, as they hang in the air like breath on a cold morning, I realize that perhaps, she might take such an accusation as rather irksome.

_The idiocy of your niece is astounding, Bryon. _The distaste in her voice wants me to shrivel up into a ball and die, but her next words are mellower, reluctantly tolerant. _He is mine, Penryn. A man of God – have you never even truly considered the words? Explain to her, Bryon. Explain to your niece where you have wronged her. Explain each and every way you have betrayed her. _

"I will _not!_" Bryon growls, his desperation turning his voice into a breathy whine. "I will _not_ doom her to this half-life!"

"Bryon?" With wide eyes, I stare up at him, feeling the most horrible sensation of dread curling in my stomach, like a cold snake twining around the inside of my belly. "What… what is she talking about?"

_Go on. _Her head dipping down with slow grace to rest elegantly against her own breast, Belle wraps her tail around her legs, the tufted tip twitching like a panther's. _Answer her question. What am I talking about, Bryon?_

"I don't know."

_Answer her question. _

Bryon gnashes his teeth, the click of bone on bone setting my nerves on edge. "I won't! I won't answer! You can't make me! Punish me any other way!"

_Answer her question or my response to it will be the last thing she ever hears. _Theobella blinks almost benignly. _See, now you've got a choice. You seem to like it when you've got those. _

A tremor runs through Bryon. He bows his head slightly, shutting his eyes. His shoulders thrust up and down with each of his shaky breaths. "Please," he begs softly, voice cracking, "don't make me do this! She… spare her."

"Bryon?" True fear writhes its way into my voice, causing me to sound scared and ridiculously small. "What's going on? What happens if you answer my question?"

"Why do you think I wanted you to burn the book?" Upon the meeting of our eyes, I notice the tears glazing the surface of the thick, molten bronze of his eyes, and resist the urge to wrap him in a big hug. "Knowledge has a price. This is the price. If you know too much, she can bind you, use your own mind to enslave your thoughts, she can…" Taking a shuddery breath, he tightens his grip on my hand. "She can do exactly what she did to me. _Stop asking_. _Please_, Penryn. You – you don't want to know!"

_Are you going to answer her question or shall I?_

With a shaking inhale, Bryon begins. "I was so stupid, Penryn, I really, truly was. I believed I was doing the right thing. I was serving my God – I had no idea. I didn't know. I didn't. It didn't even cross my mind – it didn't – oh, God, Penryn, I was a fool. There is a reason your fabled devils are the only ones that ask for men to sell their souls. I should've seen the signs. My God is not benevolent, nor does he give a single damn about me."

"What?" I whimper.

_Driven by power, you were. A fool is right. You craved the might of your master, and answered God's beckons for more. And have I not delivered? Are you not a thousand times more powerful than you ever could've dreamed?_

"I don't want your power!" Bryon howls heartbreakingly. "I don't want it! I never wanted it!"

_Now, now, Bryon. _A cruel sparkle dances in her otherwise lifeless eyes. _We both know that isn't true. It was always about the power. _

"I just wanted my wife back," Bryon cries out, his hand loosening slightly around mine. "I just wanted my Audiat back! I _never_ wanted this!"

_Use whatever explanations you desire. I care not for them, for I saw what was at your heart. And so when He came to you and offered you such power, you signed yourself onto this agreement. It's no one's fault but your own that you did not specify. _

"How was I to know," Bryon snarls, "that my beloved God's bitchy daughter was actually worse than Satan?"

The dragon snorts and shakes its mane. _You mortals! You're all the same – you ask for no specification upon deals even when such information is readily available, and when you realize that the fine print read words you don't quite agree with, you call unfair and quit the game. On top of that, you act in hypocritical natures. You don't ask a cow if it wants to be slaughtered, or blades of grass if they wish to be cut. At least I extended that invitation to you. You agreed to your fate. _

"You're…" I trail off. "You're God's kid?"

_Oh, yes. _The nasty smile returns to her lips. _Five-eighths blood is the only way to go. Impressed? _Almost like a woman flipping her hair, Theobella arches her neck, causing her scales to rifle in a gorgeously terrifying manner against the golden light.

"The holy fire." I turn to Bryon. "I saw you – with golden flame. She came to you in holy fire. You prayed to it because it was your God, and she –"

"Stop asking questions!" he snaps desperately, eyes wild. "I promised your father I would protect you! Stop it! Stop!"

"Bryon, what's going on?" My voice is a whimper. "What is she talking about? Did you…?"

Heartbrokenly, Bryon turns his head away from me, his hand first loosening, then slipping from mine and balling at his side. "I did not want you to know. I did not want any of you to know. I am… I am weak. I am so very, very weak, enslaved like a mule yet only half as strong. Now, I realize it was foolish to ever conceal it from you, to ever even approach you at all. _Stay away from me_. I am a _monster_."

"No," I whisper, shaking my head stubbornly. "You're not. Bryon, you're a good man. Please, let's just leave, we need to get out of here…"

"You're right." His breath becomes ragged. "You do. Have you punished me enough… master?"

Theobella shakes her head, causing the shadows to dance over the floor. _It almost saddens me, seeing such a powerful beast broken like an old toy before his own family. But as it so happens, greater punishment is to come. After all… _I freeze, paralyzed and quivering so violently that my teeth chatter, as her gaze swings to mine, the pupils to both eyes thinner than sheets of paper. _Penryn knows our secret. Your doom was already inevitable before you pried further, witnessing what you did, but now… now I get to decide how I shall chose your ending. A simple death is no longer an option. What should I have you do with her? Snap her neck or enslave her in the same shackles as yours? Pass on the Young legacy…? No, I have no need for another, do I?_

Bryon rips me from my stupor roughly, the claws tipping each of his fingers digging into my shoulder. His eyes replace those terrible, terrible ones, bright and full of concern. In the corner of my eye, I'm vaguely aware of him ripping out the door handle and shoving it open.

"I cannot buy you a lot of time," he says urgently, his tone filled with bitter remorse. "Hardly any, in fact. But you grab your sister and anyone else and you get the hell out of here. As far away as possible. You start running and running and never, ever once look back."

"Bryon –"

"Go."

And without another word, he shoves me from the room and slams the door shut behind me. I fall backwards, hitting the ground with a small yelp of pain, but the moment I regain my bearings, I scramble backwards. My heart hammers in my chest, and my mind whirls, each thought more fanatic than the last. Gripping Emilio's knife so hard that my own nails dig into the skin of my overlapping hand, I slide up the wall on shaking legs.

The door rattles violently on its hinges from the force of Bryon's roar of anguish from the other side. Repressing a small noise of panic, I flee, my only thought of rescuing Paige and Raffe from what I know lies beyond that door.

Of course. I'd been so stupid.

Belle. The little baby. The one responsible – and remorseful for – the sloppy killing of Bezaliel.

Theobella. Emotionless aside from her hate, blind and scathing, towards fate. The killer of recent deaths, bearing the knowledge of her God's false promises.

Whatever the hell that was. A creature lead by deluded knowledge and a ravaging thirst for blood, and absolutely terrifyingly beautiful.

And Bryon… my poor, poor uncle.

* * *

"What do you mean?" Thea snaps, her eyes sharp as a razor. "There is sunlight in this shot. My son is not possessed. Demons can't possess others in sunlight. It doesn't happen, not ever."

"It's not a demon," Hugo explains breathlessly, sweating profusely. "I'm not sure what it is, but it sure as hell ain't a demon. Bryon has no recollection of this, or he would've told me. He _would've_. That's similar to demons, I guess, but not quite. I don't know what this is."

"Well, what could it be, then?" Sariel thunders, looking perturbed and extremely worried. "Is there something else that could do this to a person? To my son? Because it wasn't his fault! It wasn't!"

"Well, that's obvious." Hugo rolls his eyes. "But I've got a theory. Whatever it was, it used to be possessing Gabriel for periods of time, or lending him its strength or whatever. He became no longer useful to it, and so it moved onto the next big target, the most powerful one, which would be your son, and my…" His breath hitches. "Once the switch was complete, it had no need for him to be blabbing about this creature, whatever it was, and so it took Gabby out of the picture for good."

Thea twitches. "What can we do?"

"If Bryon knows he's possessed," Sariel adds, "why hasn't he come to us before?"

"Maybe he's scared to."

Hugo whirls around, his heart thudding so wildly in his chest that Bay's arms wrap around his torso. There, standing in the light of the moon, sits a little girl, looking up through the balcony window, the long cascade of hair down her back hiding her nakedness.

Her small voice cracks several times as she chokes out her words.

"Maybe he's frightened and alone. Maybe he doesn't understand why his God is punishing him, why his fate is so cruel. He doesn't want it to be this way. He doesn't want to become a monster. Yet how can he avoid it? He foolishly accepted a deal he did not understand because he loved someone. He loved three people, actually. How was he to know? How was he to know he would become the monster he feared?"

She lets out a frightened breath, and Sariel's hand creeps to the hilt of his sword.

"I don't want to be her. I am Theobella. Theobella! And that is who I am! Who is she? How dare she wear my skin and name! I am Theobella!"

With a confused shriek, the girl hurls herself from the window, disappearing in a whirl of calico feathers.

* * *

"_Raffe!_"

Upon hearing me, the archangel stiffens, his hearty, contented laugh halting abruptly. Dropping whatever conversation he'd been upholding with Josiah, the only other angel present, he turns to me anxiously, perhaps alarmed by the strained terror in my voice. Relief washes over me like a cleansing waterfall despite the confusion in his eyes.

Losing myself for a moment, I almost crash into him with an embrace. At the last moment, I glance slightly to the side, the hellish red of Josiah's eyes jarring me from my assumption of comfort. Raffe is Raphael again. I can't do stuff like hug him, even at a time like this.

Confused, I pull up short, standing too close to Raffe to be just a mere servant, yet not close enough to snuggle up in his warm arms. I shiver and shake, a remnant of Theobella's otherworldly voice still echoing around in my thoughts. Baffled by my own belatee response to her presence, I watch Emilio's knife jig and bounce in my trembling hands, puzzled by my own inability to hold the blade straight.

"Penryn?" Raffe steps towards me, his confusion turning into fiery concern. "What's wrong? What's happened?"

"Put the knife down," Josiah advises, his voice not quite gentle, but lacking its usual grandiose, angelic tones.

"Laylah…" I look up at Raffe. "Oh, my God, she killed Laylah."

"What?" Josiah barks, now sounding uncertain.

Raffe watches soundlessly as a tear spills from my eye, tracing down my cheek.

My breathing becomes choppy, each inhale much resembling a sob. "I think she's killed, Bryon, too. Oh, God, Raffe, oh, God, we've got to get out of here. She's killed Bryon, she's killed Bryon…"

"What?" One of Raffe's arms launch forward, his strong hand closing around the hilt of the knife, overlapping my fingers. "What are you talking about? Penryn, I think you're going into shock, you're not making any sense…"

I scream slightly in my mouth, jolting my arms out of his hand and freeing myself, my knees practically knocking together. "She's coming for me," I whisper, hair falling into my face. "She's coming for me and Paige. Raffe, we've got to get out of here, we've got to run, she's going to come after us…"

That catches his attention more harshly. His hands land heavily on my shoulders so quickly I scarcely see him move. Intense blue eyes stare down into mine, shadowed by his furrowed brow. An inclement scowl pulls at his lips, eliminating any slightly smidge of softness from his face.

"Who is _she_?" he questions urgently, his voice deep and dangerous like a tiger's growl.

"Well," Josiah interrupts, drawing his sword, "that right there is not a _she_, but hey, it looks pretty damn pissed to me. Perhaps you two should continue this conversation elsewhere?"

Raffe's head jerks up, and I squirm from his grip, trying desperately to free myself. From down the hallway from which I had come, a deep, menacing chuckle resounds, more resembling the distance rumble of oncoming thunder than the gentle, melodious laughter I recall. My heart drops to my shoes. I rip Emilio's knife around, holding it towards the sound as best I can, lifting my lips back in a snarl.

There, standing at the end of the hallway, is my uncle, with a nasty white grin greedily devouring his face.

* * *

More than anything, Audiat wants to scream.

Come, now_, purrs the voice like heaven, hell, and earth joined in song. _Don't make this difficult, little dragon.

_A tremor courses through Bryon's body – the only time she's ever seen him in such a position of emotional agony was the painful dream of his reaction to losing her. His head is bowed and his eyes are closed tightly, as if to stem the tears continuing to streak down his face. Each breath shivers in his lungs, a candid mixture of both sorrow and heart-wrenching fear. _

_His breathing wrenches as the snake of bronze scales slithers onto his shoulder, its long, slender arms pulling it around his neck. A pink tongue dances in his ear, slender fangs unfold from the roof of its mouth and daunt before his closed eyes. _

Open your mouth, little king. _A cruel hiss echoes from the dragon's maw. _I know your tolerance for pain. I know you've trained yourself against my entry. Make it simple for me, and I shall not have to inflict such pain.

_Slowly, Bryon turns his head away from the flickering tongue, a clear indication of his response. For only a moment, his eyes open, revealing a simmering fury boiling barely beneath his surface, the bronze like fire in his eyes. But then the long lashes seal shut again, crossing arms in a protective barrier. _

She thinks you have pretty eyes. _The dragon laughs cruelly in his ear, a hissing sound that nearly gives Audiat a heart attack. _I wonder if you'd scream if I pried one of them out? I wonder if she would if she saw me devour it with a single gulp?

_Again, his eyes flare open, more furious than before. _

Ah, yes, there they are, those beautiful little eyes. _Planting a paw on either one of Bryon's ears and wrapping her tail around his neck like a boa constrictor, she arches over Bryon, pressing their faces together so that their eyelashes brush and their gazes can find nothing but each other. _I can sense her there, you know. I can sense future, past, and present. I am future, past, and present. I wonder if you'd scream if I pried out one of her little eyes? Hmm?

_Though his teeth remain clenched together impeccably tight, Bryon snarls, his lips lifting and his shivering body taking upon it the rhythm of his growl. Raw malice burns in his gaze, so fierce Audiat is surprised it doesn't melt away the dragon's skin and scales. _

_Again, the dragon laughs, her long, pink tongue probing at his lips, causing them to slam shut again. _I found it. _Her tongue recoils inside her mouth, and her own fangs slam shut around it, spreading into a wide, terrifying grin. _Don't be ashamed, you pathetic little thing, every one of you has one. It's the weakness of emotion – weakness itself. So now that I've found the chink in your armor… _Quicker than a strike of lightning, the dragon returns to twining around his neck like a scarf, her horns nearly piercing the skin on each go round, leaving white marks on his throat. _How shall I prod it?

_Bryon's growl softens slightly. He tilts his head upwards, like a creature deprived of light straining for the sun, his eyes closed in an expression of quiet pain. _

I know. _It streaks down his body, head dipping into one of his pockets. _Perhaps this shall incite some emotion…

_Its head thrusts back, flinging something into the air and bringing a cry of distress from Bryon's lips. Instead of arching across the room and slamming against the floor, against the wall, as Audiat had anticipated, the object drifts, gently spiraling to the ground like a little fairy, or a falling leaf released from an autumn tree. It seems fragile and ancient, as if, with the wrong gale, it could turn to dust and drift away in the wind. _

_"No," Bryon cries, his hand lurching forward, fingers outstretched, as if trying to grab one of her own downy feathers, to hide it once more in his pocket. "No, please –"_

_The dragon's head bucks back, and, with a single belch of golden flame, Audiat's feather disappears in a torrent of fire. _

_Bryon's expression is broken. Not even the ash of her feather floats downwards in a little spiral of dust. The golden fire had consumed it all, leaving not even smoke to cloud the ceiling. His shoulders slump and the hand he'd desperately reached out to catch the feather falls back to his side. Opening his mouth slightly in despair, Bryon crashes to his knees, momentarily disconcerting the little dragon. _

_Heartbreak sings in Bryon's once infuriated eyes. "That was all I had to remember her b–" _

_Upon the word "by", the creature releases a foul shriek the likes of which nearly seems to resound through time, and dives into his opened mouth. _

_Bryon gags, his eyes bugging from his face, but does nothing more than thrust his head back, as if paralyzed by the dragon's entry. Audiat's skin crawls. The sleek scales slide down his throat, causing him to choke and retch, followed by a thick body and two wings. His face reddens. Taloned claws assist the crawl by latching onto his bottom jaw and pushing off of it, disappearing down his gullet. _

_As the final tuft of her hair disappears down the dark tunnel, Bryon's lips slam shut, his head straightening upon his neck and the very tips of his horns craning back to the sky. He sits there for a very many moments, breathing heavily, his eyes shut and his brow furrowed, his face devoid of expression. Although she knows she should be thinking about many other things than his beauty, Audiat cannot help but admire that the way his cloak pools like molten bronze around his legs, the way his hair spikes out around his horns, and the rough perfection of his delicately balanced, beautifully _human_ features makes him look like a god. _

_A terrible chuckle echoes from the pit of Bryon's chest, and his lips twitch into a scornful smirk. _

_His eyes open. One is too bronze, too viciously bronze to be his. Another is as blue as the summer sky, almost luminescent. _

_A voice like his echoes in her ears – so close to his, almost his, but instilled with a merciless, emotionless, terrible tone unlike anything her gentle, strong giant could ever have, echoes around in her mind like the toll of a bell. _

_"I find it rather touching that his most treasured object was not his cloak, nor his staff, but a fragment of you, don't you, little eavesdropper?"_

_His head lifts, and, somehow, someway, despite the indefiniteness of her dream's vision changes. She finds herself caught, unable to look away from those eyes dwelling beneath his ridged brow, bathed in shadows. They look simply wrong. Where have his eyes gone? What has happened?_

_"I wonder what he would do if he lost all of you, don't you?" _

_Grinning, Bryon – or whoever this alien man is – shoots to his feet. His smile holds the most terrible kind of madness: the thoughtless instinct of a clever, clever predator with a great thirst for blood. The cloak billows around his feet, but not in a way that seems even remotely average. It's almost as if it's trying to escape. _

_"I expect it'll break his heart." His grin grows and his eyes flex wider, so unnaturally wide – and yet there is no end to the pupils, no whites of his eyes. "Especially if its his own hands to do it. In fact, I expect he'd rip out his own throat in grief, don't you?"_

_He leans forward, his canines thickening, elongating like lines of drool dangling from his mouth. _

_"Run, little eavesdropper, run!" he whispers, his voice chillingly flat. "I want him to have the memory of you running, of you screaming, as he thrusts his hand into your chest, through your ribcage!"_

_Throwing back his head, Bryon calls with bloodcurdling serenity, "I want him to feel your heart gliding down his throat, pumping and red and hot and oozing! Run, little eavesdropper, run!"_

* * *

"Raffe," I snarl, pounding at his chest once as he shoves me through the door, locking it behind him.

"Penryn!" His voice is every bit as furious as mine. "Do as you're told! For God's sake, I'm trying to save your life!"

I stand before him, glaring into those navy blue eyes, refusing to budge an inch further into Audiat's penthouse. "Bryon told me to grab Paige and get the hell away from here. This is a stupid, stupid idea!"

"I don't know if you've noticed," Raffe says bitterly, "but your uncle isn't really one I'd count on for sound judgment at the moment. Your sister is fine, I made sure Bay picked her up in his mad dash to get Hugo to safety. I don't want you to leave this room. Bryon would never allow his wife to be hurt by… by whatever's possessing him.

"Theobella," I insist. "It's Theobella!"

He shakes his head firmly. "I refuse to believe that until I see it with my own eyes."

"Well, whatever you choose to believe," Audiat says crisply, startling us both as she swings her legs over the edge of her bed and walks calmly towards us, "know that she's not all that hunky dory here. I don't know if you've noticed, but her uncle isn't really in control of his actions right now. He's being driven against his will towards those that mean the most to him so that, for some reason or another, he'll feel our hearts slip down his throat. It's not a very good idea for a high concentration of us to exist."

"It is a good idea, however," Raffe mumbles distractedly, already searching through drawers for weapons, "for two of the most deadly women I know to join forces in this hellish world."

"Raffe, you can't make me –"

He cuts me short, grabbing my wrist and holding it tightly, his eyes shining with a sliver of desperation. "Penryn, I've lost my leader, my ex, and maybe my best friend – I have no idea if Josiah lives to tell the tale of what we've seen. I can't lose you, too. He's a killing machine, and has this nasty habit of turning up where you least expect him. Staying inside of a barricaded area is your best option right now."

"You don't get to decide that!" I shout at him. "I need to leave, I need to get to Paige, she's probably terrified right now…"

"How about we compromise?" Audiat steps forward, holding out her arms in an offering of peace. "Penryn, I'll keep you here, but at the first sign of trouble, I'll fly you out to the human base. A bit of all; everybody wins."

"I'm fine with that." Raffe moves to check the structure of the door, jostling it roughly. "Penryn?"

Audiat gives me a shooting glare, cocking an eyebrow and smirking behind his back.

"…Okay." I cock my head and mouth a question at her. "I'm cool with that."

"Good." Raffe turns back towards us. "Now, Audiat, you said it was coming for those he cared for? So, technically, if all those he didn't love stepped aside and did absolutely nothing, he would leave them unharmed?"

"That's right." Audiat's eyes narrow. "You seem to have a good grip on his behavior. Have you ever faced my husband like this before?"

"Once." Grimly, Raffe looks me up and down, as if dissatisfied with my lack of armor, or perhaps the lack of any weapon besides Emilio's puny knife. "That was the worst experience I've ever had with him. It was harrowing, seeing him act like such an animal, ripping up people on the streets that dared stand in his way. I didn't connect the dots until now – his eyes were fucked up, same as at the moment. It mislead me. But we don't have much time. I'm going to get Sariel to come up here and stand watch with you all."

"Bad idea," I negate. "He loves his dad. I think we can handle having two valued people in the same virtual area, but three? That's just asking for trouble."

Raffe hesitates, then nods. "Alright, you're right. I'll go join the effort, then. Keep her safe, Audiat, understand?"

"No, Raffe." Audiat's eyebrow quirks, her expression unimpressed by him. "Penryn is quite capable of taking care of herself. Give her your sword."

Raffe's hand jerks possessively to Pooky Bear's hilt. "I need it. I'm more than likely going to come across him as I search for Sariel."

"You can do hand-to-hand combat like nobody's business," I point out.

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" Raffe wonders, his lips quirking and his eyes flashing with just the slightest edge of warmth. "If so, you're not bad, either."

"Yes, well, she's a quarter-blood Nephilim, and you're a stocky archangel." Audiat cocks her head to one side. "She needs your sword much more than you, even if she can do hand-to-hand combat – not that you even really need it at all. Bryon hates you with a burning passion, despite his civility. That much I know. So, if anything, you'll be a deterrent for him."

Her cruel words bite the air like the nip of frost on a cold winter's day. They're not meant to be scathing, they're simply observational, detached, and logical. After a moment of painful hesitance, Raffe looks down at me, his blue eyes meeting mine.

"Raffe," I whisper, a half-smile touching my lips, my heart twinging with sorrow. "You don't have to."

"Yes, I do." Raffe sighs, getting to work on the buckle to his scabbard. "After all, I've invested a lot in you to have you die here and now. It'd be a shame, really. Here. Give her a suitable name this time, please."

I wish I could say it's an accident, the way I overlap a few of our fingers as I take the sword, and I wish I could say it doesn't cause my stomach to flurry, the emotion in his eyes as he watches me half-draw his sword from her scabbard, testing that my old friend Pooky Bear still accepts me. Nodding, trying to look like I know even a smidgen about angel swords, I slip her back into the scabbard and smile up at him.

"She still accepts me."

Raffe snorts. "Don't you dare let her know I said this, but I think she's grown to like you, the same way a person loves a chittering squirrel that visits their backyard every now and then. You're excellent amusement for her. Apparently, my problems are all boring compared to yours."

I laugh tonelessly. "The life of an archangel, dull? Never! Now, you get out there, and don't let yourself be killed. I'm not… I don't know… please, try not to let yourself get hurt… or Bryon, please?"

"Stop saying 'please,'" Raffe scolds. "It makes you sound like a peasant. You be careful. Be suspicious of everything. He'll be coming after you two."

"Which is probably why we should scram," Audiat acknowledges.

"If we do that, we won't be dealing with him in an enclosed area like this, but instead, have him possibly be in any nook or cranny throughout all of America." Raffe casts her an annoyed glance. "Trust me, it's much better this way. At least we can try to minimalize the casualties."

He leans forward and grips me in a quick, awkward hug, pressing his lips to my forehead in his special way, the way that doesn't quite qualify as a kiss, and turns, exiting without another real word.

"Lock the door!" he calls from the other side.

"Got it!" Audiat answers, her tiny fingers flying over the knob.

"You were sleeping," I press the moment I hear his footsteps trace elsewhere. "What did you see?"

She stands to her full height, staring up at the false stars she had painted on her ceiling, sighing to herself and shutting her eyes, as if recalling sour memories. "I saw Bryon's possession, which would've been very recent past, but past all the same, I suppose. Then I put in a plea for Black Wolf – I hope he'll listen to me, even after all I've done, I hope and I pray. God knows he and White Wolf are the only ones with any hope of standing up against a creature with five-eighths blood. Lucius might, but why should he? Besides, there's no guarantee he won't kill Bryon in the process."

"Five-eighths blood…" I scrunch my brow, thoughtfully following Audiat through the apartment as she first retrieves a long dagger, then searches for her scattered armor pieces. "Five-eighths blood… she said something about five-eighths blood, too. Theobella. What does that mean?"

"A very, very dangerous combination." Audiat begins to painstakingly attach her armor. "A hair missing of one thing and just slightly too much of another. Three-eighths human, five-eighths blood something else. The only other one in existence is Lucius. It makes such awful sense that Theobella's one. Blast! Screw this world!"

Carefully, I watch her, wondering how much she knows, how much I can dish out. "Bryon was the one that killed Gabriel, you know."

"Yes, I'm quite aware of that, thank you." Audiat freezes, looking up at me with big eyes, leaning forward to grab my forearm in consolation, shaking it gently. "Oh – I'm sorry, that was rude! It won't happen again! But yes, I realized that just about an hour ago. We were in the middle of a powwow with his parents about Bryon's little possession issue before everyone dispersed and ran for the hills."

I layer my hand over hers, squeeze it once, then allow both our arms to fall by our sides. Her eyes twinkle like warm rubies. Blushing at the tenderness there, I look down at the blade in my hands, pursing my lips. "Then you know that it's because of her – Theobella – that we're in this mess."

"Thought occurred to me, yup. I would thank her for reuniting me with my husband, but she did in the ugliest way possible." Audiat giggles, hiding her mouth with a little hand.

"Then you also know that she did to unite her own parents, right?" I verify, watching her face, uncertain of whether to laugh along with her.

This seems to slap her across the face – with a loud gasp, she drops her hand, staring dumbfounded at me. "What? No! Damn! There's no way we can figure out which mother is giving birth to her, either… damn!"

"Wasn't she found in that city the Clockwork Angel helped or whatever?" I question, rubbing my thumb over the hilt of Raffe's sword, her flood of rage nurturing my frayed, frazzled brain. "Over in Africa?"

The most awful thought occurs to me – Bryon had been the one to order the Nephilim attack of Africa. Could she have been possessing him from that long ago? Why? What purpose could that possibly serve? Stressfully, I sigh, removing my hands from the hilt of his sword and rubbing at my forehead, trying to relieve stress.

Is this what Bryon had been so frantic to tell me in that one dream? Was it Belle, or Theobella, or that thing, whichever, to have chased White Wolf from the lands? And why on earth did Jane serve the creature hidden beneath the soil? Did Lucius know about it?

Something wet lands on my nose.

Audiat looks up at me, blinking in surprise, then goes rigid as a board.

Another droplet lands on my forehead, this one wet, sticky, warm.

"Don't look up," Audiat instructs tensely, her words freezing my motion to wipe the droplets from my face, even as another one streaks over my cheek. "Don't look anywhere but me. Don't freak out, either, but the balcony door is cracked open. There's also a heartbeat above us, and breathing, too."

The words don't quite compute yet. "But Theobella… she doesn't have a heartbeat, right? That's what Josiah said. He said he couldn't detect her heartbeat."

Audiat' s smile is like glass: frail and transparent. "But, Penryn, Bryon does."

* * *

**POLL: We have Belle and Theobella as names for the different phases of this creature, but what's the true name, or title, of the last?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**

**~wolfluvermh**


	60. Chapter Fifty-Nine

**Chapter Fifty Nine**

"Penryn!" Audiat yells and bowls into me, shoving me backwards like a little battering ram.

We both stumble back, watching the fall of the shadow from the ceiling and drawing our blades in a vain attempt to soothe the rapid beating of our hearts. Like a spider beneath a cloak descending on a thin, silvery string, he drifts down, unlatching his claws from the ceiling and falling with a summersault. Audiat gasps in indignation at the holes piercing through her rooftop mural, clearly indicating where he'd crept over the room like an insect.

Bryon lands lightly upon the floor, not making the slightest of sounds. His cloak ripples down regally behind him. Beneath the ridges of his horns, his glowing eyes open, burning in the dark pits of his sockets. It seems like something out of a nightmare – like a cartoon of the devil, with his spired horns and the lizard tail wrapping around his feet, almost my uncle, almost the man I know, but not… not quite. My heart aches for it.

He rises to his full height and watches us for a few moments – I can nearly sense the sun dipping lower and lower in the sky, and I get the strangest inclination that _so can it_. The darkness so gradually floods the room as the sun slips behind the mountains and Audiat and I lose the favor of the day. Still, the creature that once was my uncle watches us.

It's the most unnerving thing ever. I know this sort of stare-off. I've seen it before. It's a vicious stand-down between two predators. The first to look away is destined to be the loser of the battle, and neither Audiat nor Theobella seems willing to sacrifice their victory.

My skin crawls, and Raffe's sword screams at me to attack now, while he stands still, an easy target. Those uncanny bright eyes cause my skin to chill. Bryon's last pleas for me to flee and Josiah's screams from around the bend in the hall echo in my ears.

Bryon's lips peel back with the relaxed tranquility of a man with a beast hopelessly ensnared in his trap, knowing that his triumph is soon at hand.

Surely, these shining ivory teeth can't be my uncle's. Surely, his smile is not so wide, surely it is not so immaculately white, surely his fangs do not glisten as if coated in silvery saliva.

But they do – his face is shadowed, leaving only his eyes and the smile to linger in my mind, with two horns towering overhead.

"Bryon," Audiat whispers softly, as if encouraged by his grin. "Bryon, it's me. It's me, Audiat. Don't you remember me?"

Through gritted teeth, he laughs, eyes impossibly widening. "He remembers you. He shall remember you die."

Calmly, Bryon takes the first step forward, the talons on his fingers glinting cruelly in the orange sun, and Pooky Bear adjusts herself in my hands.

With complete silence, Audiat leaps forward, her dagger held in both hands. Nimbly, she dances over the ground towards him, her feet flying over the floor, and jumps clean over his head.

Bryon coolly watches her do so, not even flinching as she takes a slice out of his shoulder. Blood gushes and oozes, flowing down over his chest.

Audiat lands with relative grace in a crouch, spreading out her wings to give her a better sense of balance. She watches Bryon's every move with a cold sense of detachment.

_Surround him. _

It isn't Theobella's voice or Audiat's in my mind. I resist the urge to grin with giddy relief at the sound of Black Wolf, our patron and, apparently, one of the only ones able to defeat this thing, speaking to me once again. The warm thunder of his voice wraps around me like a warm blanket, and a sense of calm forcibly dispels my shaking muscles, refreshing any aches and giving me a burst of caffeine equivalent to several cups of coffee.

I follow Audiat's example and slowly begin to circle him, getting closer and closer, holding the sword ready. Trying to think of a way that I could dispatch him but not _permanently_ dispatch him, I hold back, waiting for a cue from Audiat.

Bryon stands still, not attempting to swivel around nervously, to watch us, as many might. He sighs, watching us as if we're performing quite tediously. Unlatching his cloak, he lifts it and allows it to flutter off, as if riding on a nonexistent breeze.

Audiat eyes it, biting at her lip.

I try to mouth at her that it's not worth it.

She dives forward and grabs the soft fabric anyway, pulling back quickly, but not quick enough. Moving like a panther, Bryon accosts in less time than it takes me to blink. There's no way she has the time to move. A brutal kick knocks Audiat's legs out from under her. With a yelp, the miniscule she-angel falls, getting all tangled up in his cloak.

Blind rage fuels my movements, screaming in my veins. The sound of my feet over the floor echo around. It certainly helps that Pooky Bear – or Fuzzleboop, as I've renamed her – sings with my fury, practically howling a descant.

A surge of hatred throbs through me and I slice her downwards. Flesh cleaves like butter beneath my blade. Fuzzleboop roars inside me with fury, urging another blow, for me to stab him through the heart.

I dance back tantalizingly, hoping to distract him so that Audiat has an opportunity to escape. Bryon, caught in a ray of sunlight, gives me ample time to admire my handiwork – scarlet gushes in a diagonal line down his back, and the pearly white of his shoulder bone shines momentarily before being hidden beneath the welling of blood.

Despite my efforts and the obvious depth and danger of the wound, he doesn't seem to do more than pause to evaluate his injuries. My heartbeat spikes as he reaches forward, as if to grab a fistful of Audiat's hair.

Audiat growls savagely. Before I can react, she shoots upwards and slams her jaws down on Bryon's outreaching hand like a rabid Chihuahua.

Bryon releases a sharp bark of delight, lifting his hand and shaking it about. His amusement turns into annoyance as both he and I marvel that she simply won't let go. Like a dog with a toy, she growls and adamantly refuses to release him, even though blood wells around her teeth and over her lips. Her growls and his fuse in the air. He whips her brutally back and forth, dragging her body over the floor, but she holds onto him all the same. Beady anger gleams in her eyes.

Snarling, Bryon reaches forward with his other hand. Again, I prepare to leap forward, but Audiat is dancing backwards before I can do anything. Her eyes glitter fiercely, and her lips are ringed with blood. Bryon watches her go, smiling with a creepy expression of great pleasure that I just don't understand.

_He feels pain. She does not. It is like a human playing a video game character. You can rip and hack and slice into him, but you still won't change anything. Aim for his heels. Cut the tendons. Make him a puppet without strings._

He wants me to cut his Achilles tendon. To make him helpless on the floor, unable to run.

Revolted by the thought of crippling my uncle, I hesitate, and return to cycling around him. It's a missed opportunity. Bryon's gaze turns to me, and I realize that I won't be having the luxury of deciding petty things like who I chop up anymore.

He lowers his horns and charges, bulleting forwards. All he is a streak through the room; I have no time to dodge. Terror coils in my stomach.

Hastily, I try to lift Fuzzleboop into position.

One of his muscled arms knocks the sword aside, and he plows into me with the force of a raging bull.

I scream silently as he knocks the breath out of me. The force slamming against my ribcage dispels all the air in my lungs – I gape and gasp for oxygen that just doesn't come. I can't breathe, I realize in a storm of panic.

My horror doubles and becomes nausea as his charge doesn't stop. In a whirl of motion and sickness, I feel myself being shoved backwards, riding up on his horns like a matador caught between the charging bull's spears. The crushing strength at my torso only grows mightier.

A true scream leaves my mouth as I slam against the wall. The sound of breaking glass and crunching plaster barely register above the sound. My shriek breaks off with a gasp as I feel something buckle inside of me, cracking beneath the massive pressure.

Shooting pain flares through my midriff and along the planes of my back where they'd collided with the wall.

I silently scream, breathing in great, sucking gasps. A single tear traces down my cheek. My hair falls into my eyes. He shoves only harder against me, trying to suffocate me, to keep the air from flooding my lungs. Each breath is a battle of its own, and each one is weaker than the last.

Clawing frantically at his head and his horns, I try to drag him away from me, slapping at his back with my sword and tugging at his horns. My attempts grow more panicky as warm, sticky liquid slides down my back.

I gape at the air, feeling my vision growing fuzzy. Another tear slips down my cheek.

With a furious shriek, Audiat attacks him from behind, her silver sword flashing like a mirror in the low light. Bryon grunts, the pain lessening. She repeatedly cuts into his back, his legs, his shoulders, his arms.

Snarling in annoyance, he pivots to face her. I slide to the ground, glass shards raining down around me.

I groan, trying to prop myself up, realizing that I'm resting upon a bed of glass. He must've shoved me into one of Audiat's framed paintings. I attempt to stand, but my legs fail me. My breathing grows only more ragged, and pain splinters through my vision.

I watch helplessly, trying to get air back into my lungs, as Bryon and Audiat dance together like the two star-crossed lovers they are. They seem equal, as neither seems able to land a blow, but because of Audiat's unwillingness to harm him, she's constantly on the retreat.

Theobella has no problem with Audiat's blood on her hands.

That thought reignites my spark of fury. Baring my teeth, grinding them to endure my pain, I drag myself to my feet, ignoring the sick plinking of glass falling from my skin and onto the floor. Fuzzleboop encourages me as I do so. Almost as if I receive help from the last droplet of sunlight quivering in the air, my lungs reinflate as if he'd never knocked the air out of them at all.

I'm still not strong enough to fight him. Not quite. But Fuzzleboop? She is. She's been fighting Bryon for centuries.

"Do your thing," I whisper down to the sword.

Power surges through me.

Half a second later, Audiat's only sword clatters to the ground at her feet, and I realize that maybe, just maybe, I should've given her more specific instructions.

* * *

"Raphael!" Thea calls, striding towards the shadow at the end of the hall. "Good to see you're not sitting on your ass somewhere. What do you know of what's going on?"

"Not a whole lot more than you, I don't think." He shakes hands briefly with Sariel, turning the slightest of cold shoulders upon her husband, just as he has been since the two were reunited. "Your son's possessed and after all those he loves. Audiat and Penryn are camping out in her penthouse. All the he-angels are locked in their bedrooms. I figured it might serve as a temporary confinement."

"Good." Sariel grins. "Last thing we need is a bunch of them running around and slicing my boy up. Poor Bryon. This must be hell for him. Not gonna be happy when he snaps out of it, is he?"

Thea raps him softly on the wrist. "Bryon is in pain, Sariel. We have no idea how long this has been going on. He has no control of his actions. We must exercise caution."

"Right, right," Sariel soothes, his eyes flashing like coins. "When he's not touchy about it, you can bet I'll tease him to death about it. You will, too, don't deny it. He's going to go through hell twice with us two!"

"Sariel," Thea hisses in embarrassment, displeased to have him behaving like this in such a moment. "Bryon is not himself right now! He's dangerous! Stop treating this with such… flippancy!"

Sariel waves a hand. "Oh, please, Thea, you know our son. He'd never hurt either one of us. He'd bend heaven and earth and beyond that. I'm only –"

Shock cuts through his words. The sword held in his hand nosedives and hits the ground, clattering loudly against the floor. It owns the floor, and all hold their breath, surprised by the sword's sudden, uncalled for reaction.

Dread thickens the archangel's voice into a throaty growl. "What just happened, Sariel? I left my sword with Penryn."

He scratches at his head, looking stumped. "Well, it sounded like the command of an archangel sword to me. She was ordered to stand down by Fuzzleboop."

"Fuzzleboop?" Thea repeats, snorting. "_Fuzzleboop? _ Fuzzleboop. Raphael, do you know any dandy archangel sword named – hey, where are you going?"

His face as white as a sheet, Raphael wheels around and streaks back down the hallway. Reaching the staircase, he jumps out over the empty space and spreads his wings, cutting sharply upwards, leaving Thea with no doubt as to whom Fuzzleboop rests in the hands of. Heart hammering, Thea climbs into her husband's arms, and points him after Wrath of God.

"We've got to go help Bryon, alright?" she whispers against him as he runs forward, gaining momentum. "We can't hurt him because it's not him. This isn't his fault. Still, be wary! He's dangerous, alright?"

"Whatever you say, my love, but he's still our son. One doesn't just forget that. You'll see."

* * *

Audiat doesn't waste time scampering back the moment her sword clatters to the ground. The panicky sparkle in her eyes as she regards it at Bryon's feet makes me feel slightly guilty – that hadn't been my desired effect, leaving her weaponless against him. However, my main goal is reached as Bryon turns slowly from her, his awful eyes fixed not on me, but on Fuzzleboop.

"Recognize her?" I choke out. Shaking my head and clearing my throat, I start again. "Recognize this sword, Theobella? She was the one that hacked your head from your shoulders. She can do it again, too, you know."

"She could," Bryon agrees neutrally. My skin prickles at the lack of any sort of respect, never mind fear, in his voice. "You have every means to lop my head from my shoulders again. But it won't be my head, will it? So you're not going to."

"What makes you so sure?" I challenge, managing to lift Fuzzleboop up slightly.

Bryon studies me as if I'd just said something utterly pathetic. "Go on. Attack me. Here I stand, your uncle, utterly defenseless before you, unwilling to lift a finger. Live up to your talk."

I hesitate – even if I were to attempt a true attack on the possessed Bryon, doing so when he stands so alert would be a terrible idea, like a person throwing themselves into a bear trap. Besides, there is a great chance that she'd stand there and not do a thing, letting me cut off Bryon's head. With the way she's acting now, I don't think she'd be above that behavior.

"I can hear you thinking." His lips peel back over his pearly white fangs. "It's delicious. I might just let you live, if only to preserve that spirit for a little longer, until it grows seasoned with misery. Just like his has."

"Stay the fuck back." I reposition Fuzzleboop, alarmed at his sudden approach. "Stay! The fuck! Back!"

"Or what?" Bryon accosts calmly, the slits in his eyes narrowing, becoming even thinner and thinner until they become nearly invisible. Tiny streaks of black slice the color in half. Footsteps echo closer, and his great, clawed hands begin to curl and uncurl by his sides. He bows his head slightly, shadowing his eyes, baring the sharp curves of his horns towards me in a silent threat.

"Or I'll –" I begin to lift Fuzzleboop, aiming to hold her over my shoulder like a baseball bat. The flash of motion does not quickly enough catch my eye. He streaks forward, no more than a dash of brown, and tries to knock Fuzzleboop from my hand again.

Frantically, I tighten my grip around her hilt, even as Bryon's hand slams again into my wrist, causing my fingers to spasm and weaken around her. With a feral growl that rumbles through me like an earthquake, like a lion's growl, his hand clamps around my wrist with an iron grip, yanking it up and unbalancing me.

Primal instinct pops into place and plays its due roll. I slam my toe into Bryon's knee. His balance shudders for a moment but snaps back into place before I can truly call it a victory. I bare my teeth at him and switch the hand holding Fuzzleboop, distracting him by opening my mouth as if I were about to speak.

With every last bit of strength I have left in my arm, I hurl Fuzzleboop downwards. She strikes down, downwards, slicing through flesh and bone and burying her tip into the wood. Bryon howls with pain, like a dog. He stares down at the foot I'd impaled without response, watching as blood pools over his battered shoes.

Suddenly, his grip tightens excruciatingly around my wrist. I cry out, reaching down for Fuzzleboop, but held up by him. Something in my wrist cracks.

Before I can cry out for a second time, Bryon's grip is ripped from me.

As if somehow beckoned by my call, a dark shape swoops through the room, its only abnormality from the shadowy blackness wrapped around it the glorious, snowy-white wings that arch in the air like the scythes of the Grim Reaper.

Quivering with rage, Raffe unfolds from the terrible punch he'd dealt, forcibly placing his balled fist back by his side. He watches his prey with a petrifying mask of that heavenly wrath he's most famous for. Though every sane particle in my mind rejoices, something primitive puts a prickle down my spine at the unholy scowl upon Raffe's face.

His face is that of a demon's. His blue eyes seem to glow with hatred in the inky night, lightening with anger rather than darkening, standing out like neon against the shadows around him.

In a fashion I would've called _calm_ had he not been trembling with fury, he holds out his hand, asking silently for his sword. And who am I to deny him of that right? As the pain shafting through my back reaches a new agonizing climax I'd never imagined, I pry it from the floorboard, ignoring the flesh left behind. Panting, I slip it into his hand with a soft moan, falling backwards onto my butt.

Though my vision is fuzzy and my senses nearly overwhelmed, I hear Raffe's words, clear as day, cutting through the buzz as if he were God himself.

"I am Raphael, the Great Archangel, Wrath of God!" he bellows thunderously. "Get on your knees and beg for mercy."

Bryon's melodious chuckle almost sounds as if it's mocking him. "Look at that. My body is paralyzed in fear. You scare him _so much_. Perhaps more than I do. It's fascinating... and amusing. Very amusing."

"What are you?" Thea's whisper echoes around the room. She creeps around the exterior of the room, more quiet than a dormouse, the only indication of her passing the gleam of her oiled swords in the sunlight. Leaning forward, she whispers with a crack in her voice, "What have you done with my son?"

"I am God." A pearly smile, dead and eerie, spreads over his face, but nothing else moves, not even his eyes – they remain locked on Raffe's face, unquavering, a test of dominance between two predators.

"No, you're actually not." Sariel appears in the doorway as well – he first steps up to Audiat and gives her a quick checkup. Clutching at one of her hands, he says softly, "Get out of harm's way, find Ariel, and send her this way. Don't come back."

"I'm going to," Audiat warns. She glances hesitantly towards me, then flees into the darkness, the flutter of her white skirt vanishing through the doorway.

Sariel watches her go, straightening from his crouch, before unfolding and walking towards his son with a furious look about him. "Raffe, you said you've faced him before. What do we do to get him back?"

"You don't do anything," Raffe growls, sounding adamant. "Get Penryn and your family out of here. Let me take care of this."

"Hell, no!" Thea exclaims hotly.

"As if I'm letting you have your way with my son." Sariel glares furiously at Raffe, as if enraged that he'd even suggest such a thing. "I don't trust you further than I can spit. Besides, break eye contact with that bitch and she'll sink his teeth into your shoulder, and that'll be the end of you. He won't attack me, so I can get the closest. Tell me what to do."

"Let me handle this!" Raffe snarls, evidently getting pissed. "You don't have very long until one of us breaks, and then hell will break loose too."

"And then you'll wreck this place, right?" The golden angel's laugh is cruel. "Not likely! I won't let you destroy this aerie because of stubbornness and pride! Or my daughter-in-law's flat!"

"So I'll take it outside!" An angry twitch shakes through Raffe.

"Then he'll rip you from limb to limb!" Sariel roars. "Tell me what to do while you've got him locked into place!"

"Stop…" I croak, but neither of them listen.

"You don't know he'll leave you alone!" Raffe bellows. "Actually, he'd probably be more likely to break eye contact! Then you'll be the one ripped from limb to limb, you idiot!"

Like a raging toddler, Sariel stamps his foot, his nostrils flaring. "He is my son! My son! Do those words mean nothing to you? You stupid archangel, you don't even know what it's like to love and be loved! He wouldn't hurt me even if I stabbed him through the heart thrice!"

"Sariel!" Thea snaps as the two burst into argument. "We discussed this! That is not our son, and it will snap your neck!"

Halting Sariel's approach, she hits him hard in the heel with the flat of her blade, dropping him to a knee. Dancing backwards with her eyes on Raffe and her husband, my grandmother stands halfway between Sariel and her son, forming a barricade between the two. Determination gleams in her eyes, a determination to keep her family together in one piece.

"See, even your whore is agreeing with me." Raffe sounds smug, and I know that, despite Thea's calming effect on Sariel, it'll only whip up trouble.

"What did you call her?!" Sariel yells, sounding more furious than ever. "My whore? My _whore_?! Take it back, you shit-faced bastard!"

I watch, helpless, prickles of horror creeping up my spine, as Raffe does not attempt at all to diffuse the situation, instead responding with even more spite than before.

"Get the fuck out of here, Sariel," Raffe says coldly. "Go back and curl up with your little angel armada and your woman and get out of my way."

Sariel jerks forward, his hands fisting around Raffe's shirt. With a sharp roar of anger, he lifts the archangel from his feet, dragging Raffe's gaze to his. The fury in those golden eyes knows no bounds, and, had I been Raffe, I would've melted into the ground with fear in that exact moment. I shrink back, frightened for Raffe, yet lacking the strength to be anything more than a bother.

Before Sariel can say a single word, however, a sickening crunch fills my ears, and a cold stone thunks to the bottom of my stomach upon realization.

Raffe isn't staring at Bryon.

Thea's lifeless body crashes to the ground, her neck kinked at an unnatural angle.

A bronze streak first races over the ground, passing me with a breeze reeking of internal organs, and takes off into the sky in the last second of daylight before the sun disappears. Theobella escapes into the night, vanishing like a shadow in noonday sun.

Sariel drops Raffe wordlessly. He doesn't move, doesn't breathe. He merely stares. Nothing shines in those golden eyes – nothing at all. It's as he'd become a statue, standing frozen with such an awful expression across his face.

Bryon groans, his nasty retches breaking the numbed silence that'd blanketed the room. He stumbles backwards, his hands flying to massage his neck. He clears his throat, eyes still closed. Like a man composing himself to walk in on a tense business meeting, he straightens his back and cracks his neck twice. And then those bronze eyes open, just as they're supposed to be, calm and happy and content and my uncle.

"What…?"

They blow wide with horror that's frozen all of us.

"…Mom?"

Bryon's tone is frightened, like a little kid's. I've never heard his voice sound so small, so vulnerable.

"Mom?!"

The first to move of all of us, he staggers forward wildly. It's as if he has no control over his body, no method to maneuver his flailing limbs, no way to aim his scrambling footsteps. He crashes to his knees only halfway there, stumbling only partially to his feet before crashing again by his mother's side.

"Mom!"

My skin chills at the horrible noise. It's a cross between a child's plea and a terrified scream. His shoulders begin to shake, and his breathing becomes thick and heavy, shuddering as horrified tears fill his eyes. He shakes his head in disbelief, a single hand moving to cup her cheek.

"_Mom!_"

He screams at her desperately now, his hands clawing at her face, shoving hair back, looking deep into her eyes. Something inside of him doesn't compute. It's as if I'm looking a broken and beaten dog nudging the corpse of its dead master.

"No, no, no…" I shiver at his emotion as the first tear overspills his eyes, his voice becoming soft and panicky. "Mom. Mom… Mom! Mom, please. Mama. _Mom!_"

Raking his hand through her hair and curling his fingers into a fist, he breaks into tears, face pulling back with the first stage of ugly weeping. "Don't be dead. You can't be dead. You… you can't be. _Mom!_"

His desperate shriek hangs in the air as he breaks into thick, rough sobs. My throat forms a lump as he lowers his forehead to hers, weeping without caring who sees him, crying out in anguish.

"Mom," he whispers every now and then. "Please, Mom, no…"

I clasp a hand over my mouth to block any exclamations of tears. Raffe slowly backs away, shocked.

"_Mom!_" Bryon trumpets out one final time. It's almost like I'm seeing a fearful little boy.

A tear flows over my cheek and trickles down the ridges of my fingers. Each rock of a sob in my chest causing my back to throb agonizingly, but they're unable to be stopped.

Sariel moves for the first time, taking half a step back, slowly shaking his head. His face is utterly unreadable – the only thing I can truly discern is horror, shock, and some twisted form of grief pulling at his lips. I look away, unable to look into the supernova of emotion that erupts in the exact moment a heart breaks.

Bryon looks up, his face still contorted with tears. Silent sobs shake his chest, sending cascades more tears down his cheeks. Like that little boy, he extends a hand towards Sariel, looking like he needs a big hug. He gapes at the air silently a few times before at last stuttering out, "D-Dad…"

"Get away from her." Sariel blinks, shaking his head more firmly. "Get away from my wife."

Shock momentarily blanks Bryon's expression. His quivering hand freezes, still lifted out towards his father, yet no longer waiting for an embrace.

"You were right." Sariel's voice is throaty with emotion. "My God, Raphael, I hate to say it, but all these years… you were right." His eyes, though overflowing with tears, don't have a speck of emotion in them. "They're monsters."

Bryon's voice cracks with disbelief. "Dad, what are you…?"

"Get away from her." Drunken on grief, Sariel storms forward, his fists quivering furiously by his sides. "Get away from us! Get back!"

In shock, Bryon recoils, scared to death.

He reaches out a hand as his father collapses by Thea's side only to have it slapped viciously away. It's like a drowning man trying to clutch to a last floe of debris, not able to understand that it can't carry his weight, not understanding why he dips beneath the waters anyway.

Bryon watches, broken on the floor with his mouth open, tears flowing silently, as Sariel hooks his arms around Thea bridal style and lifts her from Bryon. He attempts to clutch onto her hand, shoving through stiff fingers and holding tight. As Sariel turns away, it jerks the angel back, yanking at Bryon's stubborn arm.

"Dad," he says.

Sariel slams the toe of his boot into Bryon's arm.

Releasing his mother's hand and allowing his father to leave, Bryon looks a thousand times more injured emotionally than physically, despite the blood gushing from the wound in his bicep. He stares open-mouthed at Sariel as the angel turns his back on him.

"All along," Sariel mumbles, his voice rich and teary, "you were right. I was right. I should've killed you. I should've killed you all."

"What's the matter with you?" Raffe whispers, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You killed her." Sariel buries his face in his wife's hair, walking blindly towards the door, his steps slow and even. "I was a fool." He sobs once. "Stay away from my wife! From my _family!_"

Bryon's mouth falls open, but no words leave his mouth.

"Stop!" I shout, using the last bit of my strength. "Stop it! Can't you see you're hurting him?"

Sariel's eyes are just as dead as they look up at me. "You're one of them. Stay away from her!"

"What's going on –"

In the doorway, dressed in a warrior's garb, Ariel freezes, her eyes widening. Her gaze lingers over the dumbstruck Raffe, the grief-riddled Sariel, the lifeless Thea, and the broken Dragon. The sword in her hands quavers uncertainly, as if unsure whether attack or calm would be the best method of approaching the situation. Thankfully, her eyes land on me, and a curse appears at her lips.

"We need a medic in here, quickly as possible!" she urges, her warrior's kilt clashing metallically against her legs as she moves forward, an odd change to the usual billowing gown. "She's lost too much blood. Sariel, get a medic."

"Let her die," he monotones, continuing towards the door. "Let her bleed out slowly… Kill him, too, while you're at it."

"Oh, God, oh, God," calls Audiat's squeak as I feel myself slipping, everything becoming fainter and fainter. She surges forward, stroking at the head of hair in Sariel's arms. "No, no, no, no, no… Thea?! Thea?!"

Bryon's head snaps up from its position of utmost misery.

"Oh, God, no…" Audiat nudges her forehead against Thea's, keeping pace with Sariel as he moves towards the door, issuing what seem to be final farewells. "You didn't deserve this. No, no, no, this is going to destroy Bryon, no… Oh, Thea, I'm so sorry."

"Ah-ch'at!" Bryon bugles, staggering brokenly to his feet. His head hangs and his shoulders slump, but the fierce glimmer of persistent hope, I recognize, even with my fuzzy vision.

Another gasp is released from Audiat's lips. Sidestepping Sariel's funeral trudge, she gazes out across the room at him, her face a mask of prayer. "Bree-aw'?"

Bryon's shoulders shake. "It's me. It's me. Ah-ch'at, oh, Ah-ch'at…"

And there they are, I realize with my tired, fading mind, the two lovers reunited after centuries of separation and strife. Now, in a time when he needs it more than ever before, the Dragon's Wishing Star has returned to him. My heart buoys with the love in Audiat's face steps hesitantly forward, her bare feet whispering over the floor. Perhaps the first he's ever shed in a long, long time, tears of joy streak down Bryon's face, a relieved sob huffing up from somewhere deep inside.

I almost shutter my eyes completely, watching as Bryon trips over his feet, stumbling forward for Audiat. I almost shut them, almost allow myself to fade away into the unconsciousness Ariel attempts to keep me roused from, staring at the two with a stupidly giddy grin pulling at my lips.

But then Sariel moves again, and all illusions of this being a somewhat merciful world are shattered. Cradling his wife with one arm, clutching her tightly to his chest, he throws out an arm to block Audiat's procession. She squeaks with alarm as his strides double in speed. Sariel drags her to the door with him, despite any protests she gives, despite even the knife she buries in his bicep.

"Stop it!" she cries, shoving up against him, twisting the knife as if to keep him in pain. "What are you doing? What's wrong with you? Put me down!"

"Stay away from him!" Sariel snarls, his voice choking up with emotion. "Stay away from my son!"

My vision is fading. I'm vaguely aware of Ariel shouting for Raffe, of her hands holding cloth to my back, and of the warm puddle of sticky blood I kneel in, but all that I can manage to see is Bryon's hope smashing to the ground and breaking into a thousand pieces.

The light vanishes from his eyes, and he quivers, stretching a single hand after Audiat. But he doesn't go after her, doesn't fight, doesn't give her any incentive of his silent pleas – maybe the harsh words of his father truly pierce the last membrane protecting him from utter despair, maybe that strong, loving heart of his finally breaks.

As everything goes black, I look up at Raffe as he hurries to my side, listening to Sariel's imparting words:

"I can't let him take you from me too, Audiat! Stay away from him! That is not my son! That is not my granddaughter! Let it bleed out, Ariel, leave it be! They are not mine!"

Thea is dead, I realize. The Young family has been crippled.

* * *

**Happy holidays.**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	61. Chapter Sixty

**Chapter Sixty**

_"Long time, no see." Cautiously, I rise to my feet, watching the black silhouette against the stained glass window cautiously. It seems flat, almost, like a shadow, eerily so – the only sense of the third dimension is in the beautiful white wings lain against Black Wolf's back._

It has been a long time, hasn't it? I shouldn't have waited so long to apologize.

_"Yeah, this is kind of really bad timing." I tilt my head to one side. "Wait, am I dead? Did I die? Is this my death hall or whatever?"_

_A thunderous chuckle assaults me from all sides. _Your death is still very much in question, but your uncle shall not allow another of his family to die. The reason I wish to be reunited with you is much less dire.

_"Oh, yeah?" With stiff, unresponsive legs, I walk cautiously towards the wolf, annoyed with his sense of mystery. "Well, what reason, then? No offense to you, but shouldn't I be focused on… I don't know, surviving? Especially since I'm in such a state of peril?"_

One of the reasons I called you here was so that I could apologize. _His head swivels halfway towards mine in that spectral manner of his, with only one burning blue eye gleaming like the heart of a dying sun. _My words were spoken out of hatred and prejudice. Now, living this nightmare the second time through… I finally get a sense of my nemesis, and I see his point now. It pains me to say it, but I am united with him against a common enemy.

_"Well… that's something, I guess." Awkwardly, I shift my weight. "So there's more than that, then? Does it have something to do with…?_

_A heavy sigh bursts through the halls, and his ears flatten against his skull. _I only figured that you would like whatever answers I can provide. I am not a genius, I am not the patron of intelligence or anything remotely resembling it, but I have the same warrior's scrutiny as you, so I shall share what I know. Tell me, what is it you wish of me?

_Surprised, I blink several times, drinking in the offer. "…Wow. Okay, thanks. First off – should I be asking any of these? Bryon said something about… about her being able to get me if I knew too much. So is it smart for me to asking anything?"_

_Black Wolf moves to face the stained glass window again. He seems to think before he answers, remaining utterly still as he does, those massive eyes trained outwards. _This isn't the haven of knowledge that my rival maintains, but it is sound. Speak freely. Fear not our conversation being overheard.

_"Fine." I shrug. "My life is in your hands, then, I guess. Tell me this: what did she mean when she said that she was the child of God?"_

She meant that she was infused with abilities unbeknownst to many, abilities that allow her to compete with others similarly able for the title of the next cycle's God. I believe that my rival spoke with you about the different turns of the different eras of this world?

_"Yeah, he did." I blink repeatedly. "He said that… each time, the world was primarily the same, but everything was just a bit different. He said that each time the world was reborn, it had certain qualities that remained identical, but… almost like each had a personal spunk added in."_

Now, envision each one of those little worlds as an embryo, or a womb. That is the best description I can think of their worlds, of ours. It is like a species that lives only to reproduce, to pass on the chain of command. They all create these beautiful, wonderfully deep and complex and sensory worlds all to raise the next link in the chain, the one that shall create the next world. Do you understand?

_"Um, my brain's starting to hurt, but I think so. Everything but… embryo. What does that even mean?"_

I'm going to take the liberty of assuming that you know the definition of embryo, and that you're just having difficulties connecting two and two. This world is so cleverly built up and arranged, made imperfect so that the creatures in it may learn and evolve alongside the child. All strands are tied together, showing the child what their world is to be. The web which the wolf called Jane studied, watching how every single person is intertwined with everyone – everyone – else on the planet. Just like a child becomes an adult after being subjected to heartbreak and finding the light in it, so does the heir. And that is the purpose of this world.

_My skin prickles. "…That's extremely pessimistic. Wow. Kind of belittling."_

Not entirely. Optimism has never been my thing, but we also get to decide what sort of world this will be on our own. We are not puppets; we are defined by our own choices, with no divine intervention. Your uncle could probably talk forever on this topic. Let this suffice: if you add a slight bit more benevolence into the world, you pull on the web's strings, you influence others to do the same. Making the world a better place is not as pathetic as it seems to be.

_"I guess. But… wow. That's seriously depressing. Has Bryon known all this? How is he not wallowing in sadness?_

_The wolf snorts. _Have you not seen your uncle? He is content with his role. He is happy with what he is given. No ambition for eternity rests in his soul. I would've liked to know him longer, perhaps he would've influenced me the way I can tell he's influencing you. It's such a pity, though, that he was caught in the net of one so foul.

_"Theobella."_

Whatever's left of her, yes.

_"I need to know: who is Theobella? And… and Belle?"_

I take it you recall the myth your uncle told you of the Tyab'la.

_A shiver runs down my spine. "No."_

Yes. The answer has never been all that far, either.

_Emilio's voice echoes through the chamber, chanting her name, his accent spiking the word so that it's nearly identical to the name of the monstrous creature lurking in the shadows. Tyab'la. Theobella. On Emilio's tongue, they are one and the same word. _

_I hug myself. Shock sends shivers through me, and an awful sort of comprehension. "My baby Belle… my baby was the Tyab'la? All along?"_

No. You've got it entirely wrong. _The wolf shakes his head from side to side. _How can I explain this, how? How? Penryn, the one you know as Belle is my daughter. She is the child of the Clockwork Angel, born in a time of strife and war, her very first words being pleas for safety, her first sights that of my opponent and I caught in a bitter battle. My child, born in war, yet still... so beautiful.

_"…No way. That can't be possible." He gazes steadily at me. With disbelief, I shake my head, my knees quaking beneath me. "No! No way! I... I refuse to believe that!"_

It is true. _He sighs, the sound sweeping through the corridor like a gust of wind. _I am ashamed to say it, but it is true. I was a terrible father to her, even on my best days, but she cared not. How she loved me! How she did! My wife gave her the name Theobella – she quite liked it – but I gave her the nickname Belle, and it stuck. The moment I forsook her, you must understand, she dropped the name. You witnessed it.

_"Holy..." I run a hand through my hair, still trying to absorb the bombshell. "I don't really understand what I saw. Explain, please."_

Belle died. She was slain and her head severed by one… one she truly loved. _I notice with fascination the difficulty he has relaying his thoughts, and the human emotion glimmering in his eyes. _She was reborn, but not all her emotions travelled with her into the next life. She was angry, furious with the world and those she loved, and so she chose to leave behind a portion of emotions – some of love for me, some of love for those she knew would stand in her way. She did not sacrifice her love for her mother – her love for you.

_"Me?" I furrow my brow. "Why me? I didn't do anything."_

_The wolf studies me out of the corner of his eye as if I'd acted extremely stupid. _Precisely. You did nothing. She still looks upon you fondly – true, that fondness is now muted, as she severely incapacitated all her emotions by picking and choosing. …My story, I cannot stall telling for any longer, if I do not wish to send you into battle without an inkling of her backstory.

_"Your story?" I echo, confused. _

The story of how I became the way I am. _He shakes his head miserably, dropping his snout down, gazing at his paws. _You see, my rival and I, as we faced one another at the beginning of time, we were not very careful with our brawling. It was messy and untidy. We ripped into one each other, tearing off limbs and making flesh fall from the sky like rain. My daughter, already having been reborn enough times to get the hang of it without having to leave anything behind, and my wife looked on, frightened by both of our displays of such… primal, thoughtless violence. I see now it was wrong.

_"Yeah, no dip." I tense up, as if expecting a blow, crossing my arms over my chest. "So… what happened?"_

…I don't quite remember. This is… I have tried so hard to forget. I remember being thrown backwards to where my beloved was crouched, I remember her cry of pain, and I remember… her blood. Everywhere. I don't know if it was my fault or the bastard's. But my wife died as a result of us fighting. I was… I am devastated. And so was she.

Theobella stepped between our fighting with only one thing in mind: her own death. We accidentally struck her. I do not remember who dealt the blow. Once she had died, the way I understand it, she took my wife's spirit with her through rebirth. She tried so hard to save her last object of affection. However, such things… cannot be done without sacrifices. Instead of picking and choosing the emotions she wanted to keep, Theobella released all of her hold on anything that made her remotely human, remotely my daughter. Not even her love for her mother was kept. She became utterly emotionless, with only a reminisce of her hatred to drive her forward. And my wife, too, was changed – she had on the most part returned, but her will to survive, her desire to fight for what's hers in the world was no longer there. She'd become a wishy-washy and weak, nothing like the woman I'd given up so much for.

_"And so… you abandoned her?" _

_The wolf's ears twitch in annoyance. _You seem to have prejudiced me as some sort of a monster. I'm not. I tried to reason with her, but she would not be reasoned with. Theobella had addled her mind. And Theobella – she became the Tyab'la. Not furious at the world like Theobella, merely… above it. The last act of emotion I ever saw in her was when she condemned the Albino and I to this life – an eternal life of suffering, living on far past the will to survive, made the two martyrs in her trap. Benevolence and belligerence – that is what we represent, why she has us going around on endless circles. She never wants us to forget that we killed her mother. And so she has taken our hatred for each other and allowed it to fuel our own punishments. I see no escape from her.

_"So…" I look at my hands, lost in thought. "So that's the Theobella – the Tyab'la – that enslaved Bryon. That killed Bezaliel?" _

_He sighs wearily, looking down upon me with ancient eyes, seeming somewhat sad, somewhat defeated. _Yes, it was. She is driven. She is precise. Deadly. But she is not the only one in the world. She shall have to compete for her placement at the very top – and, might I say, the other competitors are looking much more adept, much less tainted by the emotions in their other lives.

_"Is there any way to kill her?" _

Not that I know of. However… this is not my field, knowledge. Perhaps you'd have better luck speaking to my nemesis.

_"Can I… can I see what you're looking at? The stained glass window?" I hesitate, wringing my hands. "Does it have something to do with… what's going on?"_

_With a soft grunt, he unfurls his hind legs, slowly rising up like a shadow. The long, plush tail of his is drooping and limp, perhaps reflecting his morose mood. Slowly, gazing up at the window, he backpedals, his ears folding back a little more with each step. The bright, vibrant colors of the stained glass fracture in his blue eyes, capturing the scene and imbuing it with his horrible grief. _

_There, upon the wall, is a stained glass mural showing an angel with white wings curled up beside a woman with long, brown hair upon a couch, both sleeping, and a little girl wedged between them, her hand entwined with her father's. _

_My heart breaks a little. Seeing her pudgy, pale fingers alongside his tough, caramel ones fills my gut with sorrow. A happy family, a cheery life, until… until the Big, Bad Wolf creeps along and screws everything up._

_"I'm sorry," I whisper, turning to him. "I'm sorry that everything in your life is crappy."_

That's life in general, Penryn. I'm going to try to make the best of it from now on. That white lunatic has one-upped me for too long – we'll see who the saner one is.

_Lifting his gaze to mine, Black Wolf smiles, his white teeth peeking out from beneath his dark lips. _But you've got to go now. By my words, heal quickly, Penryn Young. You've spent enough time in a hospital bed. You don't have time to waste talking to me. Know that I'm only ever a sunbeam away.

* * *

The first thing I'm aware of is aching pain in my ribcage. Moaning, I try to move in my sleep to ease the steadily increasing burn of agony, but all I manage to do is stir my bones more and alight an inferno of pain along my back. Sleepily, I try to cushion my head a bit more, to ease its throb, but my wrist is clunky and half-sheathed in a cast. No position is comfortable; every one seems worse than the last.

"Do you want me to get you something for that pain?"

I open my eyes to see Emilio sitting beside me, looking exceedingly bored. He flips through an issue of Southern Living, glancing up at me over the edge of the magazine. Stubble roughens his chin, and a weary look clings to his gaze, evident in the purple bags beneath his eyes.

My gaze wanders further throughout the room to find that I'm in what seems to be Raffe's apartment room – tucked neatly into his bed, I lay, a nest of pillows keeping me carefully from falling off the edges. My hair is spread around my head like a crown, and feels… _clean_, in comparison to the rest of me, all wrapped up in blood-caked bandages. A few battered-looking stuffed animals sit on the desk closest to me, and a half-eaten bag of chocolates sits suspiciously close to Emilio. Shiny wrappers littering the floor at the base of the Hispanic's stool betray his theft.

"What…?" I rumble into a fit of coughs, sending spasms of pain through my bones.

"Don't try to talk unless it's absolutely necessary." Again, he glances up at me, lips twitching in a wry smile. "Three of your ribs are cracked from the little mishap with Theobella, and another one of them was snapped, not just fractured. Also, there was a lot of internal bleeding, plus some spinal difficulties that I honestly didn't catch the name of. All that's been remedied, but you'll still hurt like hell. Oh, and your wrist has a small sprain. I think your husband might've cut off the circulation in your other hand."

"What…?" This time, my attempts at speech are slightly more effective, only resulting in a deep, uncomfortable ache. "What do you mean?"

"I mean Raphael. He watches over you at night, seeing as this is his apartment, and I get the day shift." Emilio sighs, flipping a page with an expression of extreme boredom. "I just arrived. Think he'd liked to have been the first face you woke up to."

"So…" I swallow, finding my mouth to be uncomfortably dry. "So all that really… happened? Thea…? Theobella…?"

Shutting the magazine and laying it on the nightstand, he stares at me broodingly. "Don't think about Thea. But I was right about Theobella. And to think, you didn't believe me."

"Poor Sariel," I whisper, biting my lip to stem tears. "I can't even imagine…"

"Neither can I." His jaded sigh echoes around the room. "Angels are famous for being biologically polygamous, but once they've got a love of their life, they get immensely attached and, well, screw the rules of biology. You remember what happened to the other Watchers after they rose from the Pit to find that their loves had perished, don't you?"

I nod gravely. None of them had lasted very long on their own.

Emilio's sadness seems to reach the tips of his lips. "No one's seen anything from him since that night. I assume he's giving his wife a proper burial somewhere. We'll have to see if he comes back."

"Does he still blame…?" I trail off, my breath catching in my chest. Another painful punch of emotion hurls itself at me. "Bryon."

"Bryon… is having his own difficulties. ...This is awfully heavy. Are you sure that this is what you want to be discussing?"

Reluctantly, I open my eyes and peer sideways at him. His almond-shaped eyes are softer than usual, his lips perked in a sad sort of smile. "How long was I out?"

"A few days. You didn't miss that much."

"Then yeah, update me." I readjust, gritting my teeth to ignore the sparks of pain through my torso, the fire along my back. "I plan on rejoining society… as soon as possible."

"Well, then, you should know that my guard on you is going to be even more diligent than before," he says firmly, as if I'm going to argue. "Ogden has found a chink in the armor of the perfect man everyone believes the King to be, and he's extorting it viciously. Everyone that doesn't directly know him doubts Bryon's ability to lead now. Through the whispers and rumors he's so excellent at harvesting, Ogden has everyone believing that both Bryon's father and wife have abandoned him, that, somehow, the leader of the Watcher's ill will makes him unable to be a good King. My people are stung by their king's dishonesty to them – in their time of moral weakness, they are accepting whispers such as that to be true. Should it continue, it will be the Young family's downfall."

"What…" I turn my head towards him, peeking through slits between my eyelids. "What about you?"

"I will stay by your side."

"No, no… I mean, what would you… do… if you weren't here…?"

Emilio is quiet for a moment. Looking at his face is like reading the emotions of a cat – it's simply impossible beyond the bland observation that he's lost in thought.

"I would stand by my King," he says finally, voice adamant. "From the day I first met him, I knew that his weakness was kindness, and that, one day, a creature with much greater ability than me would take advantage of it. Now that's happened. What do I think? I trust Bryon enough to take care of this little situation. Besides, I am emotionally tied to his family – you and Paige – and I'll stay by your side, if only to spare my own feelings."

"That's selfish," I tease, smiling slowly.

Shrugging, Emilio settles back in his chair. "Anyway, things around here have been less hectic, but not by much. Uriel was outraged to learn that the monster he'd been warned about when he'd first entered the Triangle is – in fact – real. He's giving Raphael hell about that. Michael, too, arrived today, upon Uriel's request – that's where the angelic bastard is right now, actually. It's a welcoming committee for the most warlike angel. Think of what you know of angels and think of one that is especially bloodthirsty in nature, give him a fur coat, and you have Michael."

"Yikes."

"Precisely. However, I've been noticing that your uncle and your boyfriend have gotten much closer. Perhaps a few apologies were exchanged, perhaps they weren't, but Bryon gets pulled from his misery by Raphael whenever he's feeling under the weather. I saw them training the other day, with the angel showing my King how to better defend his right flank during hand-to-knife conflict. Also, Hugo has grown reserved, churlish, and Bay has taken up the hobby of ice-cream making to accommodate the boy's depression."

"And… Audiat?"

"The Lioness, Ariel, keeps her on a short leash." Emilio shakes his head wearily. "She trusts Bryon about as much as she trusts any ally, which isn't enough to allow him to get anywhere near practically her only friend. All Theobella's talk about making him suffer did not instate much trust in her, and she wishes not for Audiat's neck to be the next snapped."

"You talk so fancy," I whisper, smiling to myself.

"One of the advantages to learning a second language is that you learn all the proper ways of saying things." Emilio's lips twitch. "Tell me, what else do you need to know?"

"What…" I hesitate, uncertain of how to phrase my question. "What happened? I mean… really? What's Bryon… said?"

"Not much," Emilio sighs, studying the ceiling. "He's kept his trap safely shut, saying no more than he has to. However, I think I've connected a few strands, if you'd like to hear my theories."

I nod slightly. "…Theobella… is the Tyab'la. You know?"

"Well, there goes one of my theories." Emilio cracks a smile. "It wasn't that difficult to figure out. It'd been bothering me ever since I saw her reborn – that doesn't happen to normal creatures. Lucius's translation of her name into Gorgeous Terror was only the icing on the cake. It's sad, in a way. But we must prepare ourselves. You should know that your uncle's taken more security measures than just me. Even Rumbbaa has been called into the ring."

"Rumbbaa?" I blink a few times. "Where…?"

"He's stationed at the human camp, taking up an entire barn." Emilio shrugs. "He'd be extremely efficient against an angel attack, but not a Tyab'la one. Seeing as angel attacks are rather protected against at the moment, I don't think that security measure is necessary, myself. But it's not the only one in place. Loyal Nephilim are scurrying all over – they replaced the human staff yesterday, and it's irritating me. We don't know if we can trust most of them, especially after all that's happened. I urge you to stay close to those you only know well – Koby, Jersey, Me, Daine."

I smile my agreement. "So… so when will Raffe get back?"

"Good question." Emilio pulls an ancient slide phone out of his pocket, his eyes grazing over the screen quickly. "He's at his daily meeting with Uriel, bickering with him, trying to sway Michael's opinion. They've lasted anywhere between a few hours and, once, thirty minutes, when one of Uriel's goons 'accidentally' knocked Raffe out for the count. He might hasten, though, if Hugo delivers the message that you're up and at 'em. Actually, maybe you shouldn't be up and at 'em."

I shrug weakly, ignoring the spike of pain in my ribs. "I feel okay."

He studies me with concern. "Try to rest. If you're too stubborn to sleep, I can fetch you a book or something. Listen to me, Penryn – I've done more than downplay your injuries. You're hurt, badly, and even though you heal quickly, your bedrest will not be dashed off for any reason."

"…How bad is it, then?"

Leaning forward, he gently clasps my shoulders, his eyes soft, kind, as they look deep into mine, almost like chocolate syrup. "You're incredibly strong, Penryn. I've always respect that, but you've given me a whole new level of reverence. You lost so much blood and nearly had your spine broken. You had your organs crushed and bruised. But, because of that, don't you dare leave this bed."

"Okay." I hesitate, glancing at him questioningly. "Hey, Emilio? …Where is Paige? And my mom?"

"They're safe, Penryn." His lips pull back in a loose, warm smile. "Bryon made sure of it this time. If it's any consolation, Pepper's with them this time, and I believe he can fight off Black Wolf if he put his mind to it. Don't worry about them. You focus on getting better. Just use that mind of steel and _will_ yourself better." He rubs my shoulder comfortingly, digging into the tense muscles like a masseur. "Or I will drug you."

"Thanks, Emilio." Exhausted, I turn my head away from him, shutting my eyes. "I don't think that'll be necessary. Wake me up when Raffe comes."

* * *

"I do worry about him," Audiat frets, pulling at her jacket, bouncing on the balls of her feet and staring out at the human camp. The ants roam and dance over the fields, each little man a tiny black speck.

"Worry about who?" Daisy pulls a bead along the necklace she's making, tying it onto the strip of leather with a tight knot. "There are a lot of people to be worrying about, Audiat. For example, I worry about you and Ariel. It must be quite a shock."

Gritting her teeth, Audiat shuts her eyes and breathes deeply to soothe the spike in her temper. "Ariel's just dandy, so there's no need for that. I'm worried for all the hims – Sariel, Hugo, Bay… Bryon. Have you seen him recently? …I don't want to sound needy or obsessed, but… I'm uber worried."

"Well, you've got every right to be." Daisy shrugs. "Hell, I'm torn up about Thea, but I can't be feeling the same way Bryon is. She was his compass needle, always pointing him in the way to go, you know? Whenever you slip through the cracks and meet up with him again, you'll have to be sure to give him lots of attention, like a little doggy. You're one of the legs on his chair, you know."

"I know." Audiat stares broodingly back at the pale-haired woman destined to take Thea's position in the Wives. "He… he can't take much more. I remember… I remember last time, he was already starting to break a little bit under the pressure. Being as old as he is and as… oh, I don't know…"

"Loving," Daisy supplies, glancing up from her necklace.

"Right. Being as old and 'loving' as he is, I don't think he can take much more emotional trauma, you know?" Audiat fidgets, toying with the edge of her shirt. "And what if, you know, _she_ comes back? I know if he sees her, he's going to poison himself, rah rah, but… can he really be prepared at every moment?"

Daisy stares blankly at her for a few moments. "Do you need a paper bag, honey? You're stressing yourself out."

Moaning, Audiat collapses into her chair. "I don't understand how you can be so calm about this…!"

With a heavy, pitying sigh, Daisy shifts closer to Audiat, resting her hand on the little angel's forearm. "You've got to have a little more faith in your future, Audiat. Tell me what would make you happy, right now, in this instant."

"Cocoa." She smiles weakly. "A hot mug full of hot chocolate. And enough bubble wrap to package the Eifel Tower."

* * *

_"Thea, honey," Sariel calls, staring down at the little bronze dragon sitting proudly before him. "Bryon just brought me a mouse. What do I do?"_

_He's in a two-room log cabin, in a living room sort of area with a bed in one corner and a couch in the other, the floor sheathed in a great rug. A few perches that look like they were made for birds are splayed throughout the house. The windows stream with morning light. An itty bitty dragon sits before a towering Sariel, both frozen, waiting for a movement from the other. _

_Thea sticks her head in through a doorway, smiling cheerfully, her hair pulled back in a messy braid with hair flying everywhere. Upon her shoulder, another Nephilim perches, a winged one, one that's dull brown in color, with a furrier mane around her head and eyes like silver coins. She grins down at the little dragon I realize is Bryon, her eyes glittering with adoration. _

_"Oh, look at that," she coos. "He must've missed you while you were off with the men on your hunting trp. He probably wants to go with you next time, so he's showing you what a vicious predator he can be. Just pick it up and tell him what a good hunter he is."_

_Sariel nudges the rat with his toe, his face remarkably squeamish for a big, tough angel. "But I don't _want _to pick it up."_

_"Sariel!" Thea snaps, sounding appalled. "He caught that for you! All I've ever gotten are spiders and the occasional grub!"  
_

_Still, the big angel seems unwilling to touch the prey_ – _he glares down at the mouse, his face one of repulsion. The tiny Bryon dragon, an absolutely adorable fun-size version of the earth-shaking monster, squeaks, sounding like Belle. He cocks his head to one side, delighted smile slowly faltering. He whistles a question, his eyes filled with worry, and he noses the mouse closer to Sariel. The angel's expression is far beyond repulsed. _

_"Oh, heaven, this is a stage, right, Thea?" He glances up towards her. "He's not going to bring us rodents for his entire life, is he?"_

_"Well, I have no idea." She shrugs. "Cora's not even begun that stage. I'll ask Daisy when she brings Kia over."_

_Bryon pops and whines, nudging his mouse. His eyes grow despairing as Sariel still ignores his offering. _

_"Oh, is Penemue coming, too?" Sariel grins. "Should be fun!"_

_"No, just Kia and Daisy. We're all going to go down to Town Square and take part of the Festival of Blades. Cora's been counting the days, but you'll need to take Bryon elsewhere."_

_"Huh?"_

_"He's terrified of violence," Thea reminds him. "This could possibly be the most traumatic thing in his young life if we let him anywhere near a festival celebrating swordfighting. He'd wet himself."_

_"Well, that's okay." Sariel grins, looking down for his son. "We'll have a bit of father-son bonding time, right, boy? Bryon?"_

_Sometime during the conversation, Bryon had crept off to a dark corner of the room. He skulks there, face to the wall, his head buried beneath his paws. When Sariel calls his name, he lifts ever so slightly from his miserable, curled-up ball, staring back at his father with massive, tear-glazed eyes. Whistling softly in response to his name, Bryon fakes a slight smile. _

_"Oh, little man..." His face tensing in disgust, Sariel leans down and picks up the rat by the tip of its tail. "Here. There. I'm holding it. Thank you so, so much, Bryon, I'm so glad. Never prouder."_

_Squealing with delight, Bryon dashes forwards, jumping onto Sariel's shoulders with one great bound, perched on his shoulder like a parrot. He nibbles affectionately at Sariel's ear, happily prancing on his shoulder like a cat pawing at a bed, popping and whizzing gleefully. Sariel's great chuckle echoes through the room as he tries to block Bryon's gentle licks, his grin a thousand times more potent than his expression of disgust had ever been. _

_"Stop that, you silly thing!" Sariel chuckles, shoving Bryon's nose away. "Oh, Bryon, you are, without question, the silliest son I could ever ask for." Tenderly, he takes Bryon in his great hands, cradling him like a baby, his eyes soft and almost teary. "I love you, little boy. But don't you drop any more dead animals at my doorstep ever again, lizard thing. I will _not_ touch them next time, no matter how many sad-eyes you give me."_

* * *

"Hey, Penryn." Gentle fingers stroke my forehead, the backs of his knuckles slowly trailing down my face. Though my ears are muffled as sleep-drugged ears can be, I swear it sounds like a baby voice to me. "How are you feeling, huh?"

One of my hand flies out blindly – it sends ribbons of pain through my torso, and, although I try to lace it through his fingers or maybe grip him tighter, I feel the smack of a forehead under my palm. Raffe grunts.

He laughs somewhat breathily, sounding stressed and concerned. "I see you're feeling better." Still chuckling, he climbs onto the bed beside me. If I had not opened my eyes, I would not have been able to tell – his every move is limber, careful not to stir the cushions and disturb me. "But how much does it hurt?" One of his hands hovers over my ribs, as if afraid to touch me.

"A lot." Ignoring the pain, I scoot closer to him, grimacing at the pain. "…But I'll live."

"You'll live," he says quietly, his voice even and emotionless. With more gentleness than I'd thought he was capable of, Raffe wraps his arms around me, pulling me closer to his warm chest and pillowing me against him. His hands are soft upon the stinging cuts along my back.

"You'll live," he repeats, his words riding upon a slow, relieved exhale, then turning back into the mocking tones I know they often are. "You know, you'll lose your appeal if you keep faking out on me. I advise just picking one: dead or alive. All this uncertainty is really a hassle."

I laugh at that, tickled that he'd bring up such a trivial thing in a time of such misery – but then, before I can truly enjoy that warmth of being by his side again, new agony sears in my ribs. Each dying laugh brings another inferno of pain to my ribs. I cry out softly in the middle of my laughing, the chortling quickly becoming tears.

I'm not sure why I cry. I've given up trying to figure out things like that, being a teenage girl. It's just part of the package. I could be crying because of my damned ribs or Raffe's suffering political party or the tragedy that is Theobella's life or maybe just my own hapless situation.

Every time my shoulders shake or my lungs inhale too sharply, the pain intensifies again, causing more emotion and more tears. I try to huddle against Raffe, to drown my sorrows in him, and he happily obliges.

Hushing my weeping, wiping tears from beneath my eyes and hair from my face, he cuddles me, pressing his almost-kisses to my forehead, on my cheeks, along the bridge of my nose.

"Did I ever tell you about that one time that one time Josiah and I were scared out of our wits by a pack of cats in an alleyway? No? Well, now's as good as time as ever, isn't it?"

"Yes." Sniffling, stifling my tears, I smile up at him. "Please. Tell me. I'm… I'm sorry for crying."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Your eyes were sweating, so what? It can happen."

In that moment, I notice his eyes are glassy, too – not the extent of mine, of course, but they're filled with emotion for me, for the situation. Perhaps I shouldn't feel as honored as I do to be able to witness the Wrath of God's weakness, to invoke it, but I truly am. With one finger, I dab at a bit of wetness outside of his eye, making it like it was never there at all.

Clearing his throat, he begins. "So, Jo and I, we were coasting along over this big city, a place called Jueera – you would've liked it, I think. Gabriel had told us to search for this big, mean Fallen angel, a badass called Abbadon. Now, you see, Abbadon has this irrational aquaphobia…"

With each of his words, a little bit of the stress in his voice relaxes, and a little bit of the tenseness in his muscles loosens. He clutches me tight without realizing, strokes at my hair absentmindedly, as if I am a kitten for him to coddle in his grief. It's only the tender glances he offers towards me whenever I attempt to laugh at Josiah shrieking at felines or Raffe's hasty retreat after the sound of scampering that tells me he values me more than just some teddy bear. And it helps. Hearing his voice soften… helps.

When his story ceases and I again emit a stunted sort of giggle, he rubs a thumb against my chin.

"Your bandages make you look like a mummy," he chuckles, rubbing his nose against mine.

"Does that surprise you? Can't you picture me as an Egyptian queen?"

He raises an eyebrow chidingly at me. "You're the Evil Queen, remember, Greedy?"

"Ah, but" – I rest a finger on his lips – "what if I'm the Evil Egyptian Queen? Cleopatra's evil stepmother."

"Then the Egyptians would've died off much, much sooner they did." Raffe cracks a wry smile against my finger. "Death by Penryn would be a terrible way to go. Besides" – he purses his lips and cocks his head, making him seem sideways – "the prospect of having an ancient, shriveled up, and probably _cursed_ corpse in my arms is not anywhere near as attractive as this."

"So, I can't be a queen because of your discomfort?"

Raffe smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. "Yeah, seems so. Tough luck. I'm not being that selfish – after all, I'm saving the great Egyptian civilization."

"Watch it, mister, or I'm going to leap out of these mummy bindings and wring your neck."

"Death by Penryn." He shudders exaggeratedly. "What a terrible way to go."

* * *

**I hope you all had a very merry Christmas, and a happy, happy Hanukkah! **

**Sixtieth chapter. Heh. This is… so long. I have a deadline now; for anyone that isn't aware, date and description for End of Days (the final book) have been released (thanks to Aza White). Gotta finish this by May 12th. I can do it. **

**Dearest EquestrianGirl21: I told you there was Raffryn on the way. You, child, need to learn the value of patience. Haha, it's fine, I was counting the chapters till the next Raffryn scene, too.**

**POLL: Ogden's campaign… looking pretty good right now. How so?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	62. Chapter Sixty-One

**Chapter Sixty One**

"Hello, Lucius," Bryon murmurs, glancing over the edge of his latest report. "May I ask where you've been?"

"You may," the boy sighs, "but you already know. Don't play dumb."

Bryon's lips quirk. "Hmm. Alright, then, how's this for a question." He hurls the report down on the desk, shooting to his feet, lips bared in a snarl. "_What the hell do you think you were doing?!_"

Unperturbed by Bryon's fury, Lucius chuckles, playing with his deck of cards, his lips pulled back cockily and his eyebrows arching high. "My, my, it seems someone just let their hair down. And, last time I checked, Bryon, you have no right to lecture me like you're my mother." His grin grows catty. "I see the beginning of a speech there. Shut that mouth of yours and save your words for someone who cares."

Bryon's firm resolve slides into place. Levelly, he squares his shoulders and stares darkly down at the boy, keeping his face clear of emotion. "Then you can take whatever sop story you have for me this time and do the same, Lucius. I am not a carpet for you to walk all over."

Lucius is quiet for seconds, as if taken aback. "I'm sorry, what did the ever-so-benevolent Lord of Petunias just say? Could you repeat that?"

With a sigh, Bryon turns his back on Lucius, an ache pulling his heart down to the pit of his stomach. Though he knows that it'll throw the boy, that the child will be confused and hateful for the rejection, every snappy teenager must be dealt with. Since the job was neglected by Lucifer in the years for prime molding, he must drive the message in deeper this time.

"I told you to fuck off, Lucius." Bryon picks up the report calmly. "I can't be bothered by you right now."

"Can't be bothered?" Lucius echoes, sounding furious. "The information I have gathered might help your measly hide survive this war."

"I'm uncertain what part of my words was unclear." Bryon narrows his eyes, glaring up at Lucius. "Would you like for me to repeat myself again?"

"Do you know how much I risked to get this little tidbit, how much I sacrificed?" Lucius hisses, stalking forward and leaning over Bryon's chair, his lips perked back in a snarl, his tongue batting at the air like a snake's. "I am at a fraction of my power because of what I've endured."

"Go whine to someone else." Bryon flips to the back of the paper. "I'm not your mother."

"No, but you're my family." Lucius whirls away, turning his back on Bryon. "And isn't that the same thing, dearest Bryon? I thought family was your one and only motivator. Maybe you're not the nice and cozy family man everyone believes you are. Maybe you're just as bad as me."

"Oh, Lucius." He sighs, shaking his head. "You're so naïve. You forget, boy: I'm so much worse than you've ever been. I was here _first_. I am a thousand times larger, a thousand times smarter, a thousand times more deadly.

"You are just entering the arena, just a little puppy boasting its first displays of aggression. I have been playing this game for centuries. God help you if you think you can pull this high and mighty act on me. I have tolerated you, Lucius, but from now on, you either treat me with respect or as an enemy. I refuse to tolerate your teenage insecurity any longer. Now, scram, or I'll give you a little taste of what's to come."

"You are a monster." Lucius, grasping at straws to keep his control of the situation, desperately pulling at strings to get his head wrapped back around the sudden twist in the tale, smirks. "I suppose I've always known, but it's amusing to see you prove it."

"I am a monster." Bryon's eyes flash, burning like beacons. "This is your last warning. Leave now and I won't have to show you just how much of a monster I am."

* * *

"Hey, Raffe," I murmur into his hair, "when do you have to get up?"

Softly, he grunts, stirring groggily beneath my arm with ripples of muscles. Muttering incoherently, he half-rises up from the pillow, then crashes back down with a groan. While he repeatedly tries and fails to jar himself from slumber, I bury my face in his wings.

"I gotta go," he mumbles, laying his hand over mine. "I'm already gonna be late."

"Okay." I snuggle closer against his back, laying my cheek against the skin between the two crests of his furled wings, which, remarkably, don't smell much like musty feathers. "You sleep well?"

"Yes, actually." He half-turns, his face seeking mine and gently nuzzling against me. "Aside from, you know."

Sometime around two o'clock in the morning, his wings had burst open to their full glory, slapping me as they did so. He'd shouted a frightening battle cry, and then proceeded to viciously punch at the air, kicking off all the blankets in the process.

I laugh quietly, trying to keep my ribs from shaking. "How often does that happen, by the way?"

"Only when I'm comfortable." He shrugs, casually wrapping an arm around me as he does. "In a place I call home, most of the time. Didn't know I'd grown so attached to this bed. Would've warned you otherwise."

"I wish you had. You scared me to death. I was in the middle of a nice dream, too."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mmmhmm. I was stabbing Lucius through his slimy heart."

Raffe's chuckle rumbles through me. "I was beating the will to live out of him, so I suppose we're just mentally linked."

"There's no way I want a mental link with you." I cup his cheek, propping myself up on an elbow, wincing only slightly at the searing pain that flares up in my ribcage. "Hey, Raffe, last night, I was thinking about… about my deal with Lucius."

His eyes darken with hatred, but he leans into my hand, prompting me to continue.

"I realized that… that the rules were that you couldn't kiss me." I swallow, uncertain how to phrase the bombshell without sounding like a self-centered bitch. "He said something like if you kiss me, he can kiss me, on and on. But… there's nothing in our arrangement that says I can't… can't kiss you."

Raffe's breath hitches. His gaze meets mine sharply, narrowing with intuition, judgment.

"Not that," I hurriedly add, "I think I should. I mean, that's why I'm… telling you this. I… trust you enough to figure out the right answer. If you want me to… I can kiss you on the cheek or something. But it seems unfair to me. It's just up to you, okay?"

"So…" In a motion that would be awkward if anyone but this graceful archangel tried, he reaches an arm back and gently rubs his finger along my cheekbone. "You can kiss me. But I can't kiss you." He inhales sharply. "Rather cruel twist of fate – but I guess that's what that bastard's good at, cruelty."

"I'm sorry, Raffe." I advert my eyes, shame butterflying in my stomach. "So, so sorry. …I had no idea that I would do this to you."

For a long time, he remains silent, stroking at my cheek. His eyes are so lost that I dare not interrupt his deep reverie – Hugo and many, many others seem to think that he's stupid, that Raffe doesn't think before he acts. But, in personal opinion, he thinks more than any of them do before he says anything.

"I think," he sighs, softly nuzzling against me, "that it might be better if you keep those lips to yourself. As much as I want you to –" He cuts off abruptly. "Penryn, I'll be frank: you're a point of weakness for me. It's a weakness I'd rather not have. Especially now that you can suffer because of it. So, let's say that I broke down after a kiss of yours –"

"And didn't end it with a line like, 'I don't even like you.'" A grinning face pops through the balcony doors. "Right, Pigeon-Bat, you're learning! Soon, you'll be an acceptable ship!"

Cursing quietly, his face contorted in an annoyed scowl, Raffe chucks my pillow at Hugo. The boy ducks behind Bay, but, being a cushy, gentle, drifting pillow against a firm, stocky body of muscles, it doesn't do more than slightly puzzle the Fallen angel.

"That was mine," I scold, poking Raffe in the chest. "I can't get out and get it back, either. I can't even move, you dick."

"Have mine." He shoves it towards me, still scowling at Hugo. "Should smell like me. Your animal sense will be nice and tingly."

"If you know what he means," Hugo growls in a syrupy imitation of a sexy voice.

I shiver at the cold nip of morning November air as Raffe throws the covers open and leaps out of bed, jarring the springs sharp enough to make me gasp. Bay's eyes light up with concern, and, abandoning the two to their feud, he comes and kneels beside me, smiling softly.

"Hello," he rumbles, beaming down at me. "I haven't seen you in a while. Are you alright?"

"Okay, I guess." Concerned, I glance towards the rising sun. "Aren't you supposed to keep a low profile during daytime hours?"

Bay shrugs, still smiling with a dopey sort of happiness. "Emilio wanted to sleep in after all that's happened, so we gave him a day off. I'm supposed to stand watch over you today. Unless" – his expression of giddy delight drops slightly – "you feel well enough to be walking around. Then I guess… I'll stay here." He glances towards the table. "Emilio did gather quite an impressive cache of magazines I could look through."

I hesitate, trying to ignore the boisterous arguing of Raffe and Hugo, praying to some higher force that they won't be heard by any important enemy. "Well… I _was_ thinking about seeing Bryon. But after that, I'll return to you, I promise."

His kind smile reminds me of a puppy dog. "You don't need to sit in a boring bed all day to accommodate me, Penny – can I call you Penny? Hugo says 'Penny Poo' but you don't seem to like that…"

I shrug – why the hell can't the kitten of a Fallen angel call me by my embarrassing nickname? "Sure thing, Bay."

"Okay." He beams. "You don't have to sit here all day, you realize. After all… I've got a TV. And" – his tone becomes official – "Hugo wants me to do research."

"Yeah." I do not lie when I say that Hugo _appears_ at Bay's shoulder, resting his chin there and grinning madly down at me. "Turns out Tallulah is totally addicted to this show called 'the Devil is a Part-Timer.' It's one of those anime things – Japanese animation – and Bay doesn't mind watching them, so he's got a mission. He needs to figure out why Lucius likes it so much."

"Oh." Blinking, I frown, glancing down at the floor. "Okay."

"Why are you even here, monkey?" Raffe spits, crossing his arms over his chest, glaring out at Hugo. "Baelan, you, I can understand, you're like the BFG, but you?"

"Bay and I are a partner package." Hugo leans his head against Bay's cheek, closing his eyes and sighing blissfully. "We are two for the price of one."

"I would never sell you, Hugo. And if I did, the price would be too high for anyone to buy, so I'd keep you by default."

Hugo chuckles, kissing his boyfriend's neck. "Thanks, Bay. Means a lot. I'd never sell you, either, big dude."

"Get out of my apartment," Raffe mumbles, pulling off his navy blue T-shirt to replace it with a crisp, white one. I watch him do so, trying to convince myself that it's not perverted, studying how adeptly a guy can do his tie, how sexy he looks while tugging on the jacket to his suit.

"Well, you're hardly one to act all high and mighty." Hugo's voice roughens in a manner that seems to disturb Bay as he imitates Raffe. "_I'm Wrath of God, and I have only one weakness. A hint: it's you, babe. But you can't kiss me. I know it's tempting. I kiss the mirror sometimes. Why? Never mind why. Oh, you mean why can't your lips touch this? Why indeed. More sexual tension, I guess._"

"Stop that," whispers Bay, a shiver running through him.

Raffe puffs up, bristling. "You are so lucky I've got more self-control now than I did a month ago, else you'd be walking around tongueless."

Bay chuckles quietly, the sound of it a soft threat to Raffe, but his anger is sated by Hugo's gentle caresses.

"Don't let him get under your skin." Lazily, I bury my head in his pillow, and tug at the covers, trying to pull them back over me. In the process, however, I jar my ribs again – a soft, breathy sound escapes my lips, and I go limp against the mattress, deciding that I'm okay, half-frozen to death.

"Oh, you silly monkey," Raffe sighs, moving forward to fix my sheets for me. "I'm not your maid, you know. When you actually get reintroduced into the real world, I'm going to have to teach you how to eat again."

"I don't think my ability to eat is the problem. Actually, if I don't get breakfast soon, I'm going to resort to cannibalism." Despite his flinch at my matter-of-fact tone, I catch his hand in mine and squeeze it gently. "Raffe, you should get going before Hugo gets under your skin again. I hope you won't be _too_ late."

"I'll be later than late." If a shoulder-poke can be called affectionate, his is. "Don't die while I'm gone."

"I'll try my best, but it'll be a struggle."

* * *

I knock at the door as I push it open, my entrance done with hesitation, uncertainty. A guilty reluctance to face my uncle nails itself to my heart. His cloak waterfalls over his chair like silk, and his staff leans loyally against his leg. He looks up from a pile of papers, his bronze eyes gleaming just the way they should, and smiles, beckoning me silently in.

Unwilling to break the thin ice of quiet sealing over the scene, I limp forward, wincing at every step. Bruises and broken bones ache and sear, each new throb of pain reminding me of Emilio's words of caution against anything remotely like this. Even the makeshift crutch Bay had fashioned for me does little to help – if anything, it jolts more against my ribs.

Bryon watches me, agony hidden poorly in his eyes.

"How are you, Penryn?" he asks redundantly, rising from his seat to pull out my chair and help me into it. His hands are ever mindful of my injuries, avoiding all the areas that hurt like hell.

"I'm okay, considering." I study him, watching as he settles into his chair again, watching him brush aside the letters. "And you?"

His lips quirk. "The same. It's been busy, and I have no earthly idea _how_ I'm getting hate mail – is there still a mail service that's up and running? If so, good for it."

Slowly, I nod, eyeing him in search of true reaction. "Emilio told me that your people are confused, yeah. What are the odds like? From a political standpoint?"

"Well, let's put it this way." He leans on the table, looking up at me through his lashes. "I have to do something – soon – to prove that I'm still an able-minded leader. Somehow, one of Ogden's spies got ahold of… all the information regarding my little..." With a falter in his voice, he looks aside – I follow his gaze to a painting of a hillside that looks at lot like Audiat's.

"Penryn…" His gaze swings back to me, intense emotion broiling inside. "I am so, so sorry. Not only for" – he gestures in frustration towards my bandages, towards the crutch – "but for ever putting you in a position like that. I'm sorry about being the reason the world's gone to shit, I'm sorry that… that I took your grandmother from you." With a shaky breath, he bows his head. "There is no way I'll be able to take that back. Ever."

"Bryon…" I lean across the table, ignoring the twinge in my ribs, and clutch his hands comfortingly with the arm he didn't sprain. "It wasn't your fault. I know you're probably not going to believe me and just go on hating yourself, but… it wasn't. I don't blame you."

A deep, resonating laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside him, bitter and sharp. "Look at you here, consoling me. I'm sorry even for that, Penryn. Things were supposed to change for you when we met. I thought… I thought I could protect you and give you a happy life again in the streets of Secrem Domu."

Somewhere, subconsciously, I realize that this is the most Bryon has ever opened up to me.

"Well, I don't need protecting," I insist with a raised brow, "and I'm happy right now. We're family, Bryon, not superman and a bunch of little damsels in distress. So, tell me. What's on your mind?"

"I shouldn't heavy the weight already on your shoulders." He smiles frailly and squeezes my hands back. "You already carry too much."

"Okay, then, we'll both talk," I offer, raising an eyebrow at him. "Do you want to start out or should I?"

He laughs, a hint of his real-self shining through for a moment. "You sound like a kindergarten teacher. I'll go first. …I almost knew… beforehand that it was me. That I was the one that… pulled the trigger. Whenever Hugo would report on his fruitlessness, I'd get this sort of… smug glow. And… at night, I would have troubles sleeping, even though my dreamtime conversations with my patron are the things I look forward most to these days."

"…Can you not remember what happened, then?" I tilt my head to one side. "From recently?"

Puzzled, he stares down at our hands, lost in thought. "Now that you bring it up, that is very strange, for I do remember… every excruciating minute of… recently. The memories are fuzzy at best, but they still… Maybe it's because she put conscious thought into my memories this time. It was a punishment, after all. Last time, it was just her disposing of unfortunate playing pieces."

"I guess that makes sense."

Bryon shrugs. "Honestly, this is all guesswork. …You have been informed of Theobella's… past?"

I grimace. "Yeah, that was an object of discussion with… my patron. Poor girl."

"Yes, she lives a sad life, one that is likely never to improve or grow lighter ever again." Broodingly, Bryon stares intensely at some point above my head. "Strange, isn't it, how such a small act of belligerence, in one tiny family, can equal the unhappiness of so many people? Then again, I am not one to talk about loss of life."

He sighs, removing one of his hands from my grasp to rub at his brow, closing his eyes and biting at his lip.

"You didn't kill those people, Bryon," I insist.

"You're right, I didn't," he agrees gravely. "But it's because of me that they're dead. Had I not been too curious, they would've all been alive. And I'm perfectly aware that it wasn't my conscious mind aiming the gun, but that sort of realization… it haunts you, Penryn, and I'll be frank: it probably always will. If I had never been around, this most likely would've never, ever happened."

"Then something else awful would've happened and we'd all still be where we are now." I wave a hand, surprised at my own forgiveness, considering a month ago, I would've strangled the man that shot Gabriel on the spot. "If you can't forgive yourself, then you should stop… stop torturing yourself about it, at least."

"I'll try." He looks up at me again, eyes softening. "And what about you, Penryn? We agreed to swap tales. Tell me what is bothering you. I shall do everything in my power to make it better."

The tides turn, and I am the one blushing and hiding my eyes from him. With a long, heavy sigh, I mutter, "To tell you the truth… I'm scared."

His concern grows ever more visible, saturating the color in his eyes. "Oh?" he intones.

"I'm scared of…" I shake my head, still hiding my gaze from him, reluctant to look up at him. "I'm scared for everyone. The Tyab'la… when I saw how… how utterly powerful it was… I was scared. The only thing in my mind was that I had to run. I had to get home to Paige and hide. And… and I've never felt like that before. Or at least that _strong_.

"It hasn't really worn off yet. I'm jumpy. The angels… the angels I saw walking here, the guy ones, they gave me the creeps. I'm just worried that, because I'm so scared, I'll screw something up."

Bryon's smile grows kind and depthless, coaxing me to sink into the sense of comfort he emits. His eyes gleam softly, the wisdom there calming my nerves and keeping me grounded. Massaging at my hands, he squeezes my fingers.

"It's okay to be scared, Penryn," he murmurs gently. "In fact, it's good that you are."

I stare up at him, uncomprehending.

"People say that being without fear on the battlefield is a good thing. That a heart devoid of fear is the heart of a Lion. It's not true. The ones with the greatest courage are the ones that fear the most, the ones that are afraid. They – we – are the best fighters because we have stuff to lose, we have things to fear _for_. Those things make us stronger. Do not skirt around your fear. Embrace it, for you are human, and you shall not throw your life away – you will fight until the very last breath for those you love."

"But –" I gnaw at my lower lip guiltily. "Bryon, I'm scared of what happens next. I want… I want everything to turn out okay, but… I don't know if it can. I'm trying to reason with myself. What if – what if this does turn into an all-out war? Michael's here, and he's the war dude, right? What if…?"

Mindful of my bandaged arm, Bryon rolls our hands across the table, rotating slightly from side to side. He watches me, his eyes tranquil, as I fret about everything that might go wrong. A smile lifts the corners of his lips.

"Have faith in Raffe, Penryn," Bryon urges. "People around here pretend that he's a heap of dog-shit, and I'd be lying if I said I've been the most open-minded of fellows towards him. Truth be told, he's smart. Not academically in any way, shape, or form, but intelligence isn't measured on test sheets. If he comes through for us, if he wins this election, there will be no war. All we can do until the results roll in is keep our heads low and support him in all ways we can."

"What happens if he doesn't win the election?"

"You're a smart girl." His hair falls into his eyes as he cocks his head. "You know the answer to that. But, between you and I, I think he'll pull through for us. True, he's not as eloquent or tricky as Uriel, but he's got a great heart."

"He does," I agree quietly.

"That's really what matters more for simple men like angels. Just have faith in him, and in my judgment." He cocks his head to one side. "Besides, overthinking the future won't help you at all. We don't know what's coming next. There's no way to prepare for it, to cushion any blow. It's best just to have faith in our decisions and carry them out to the fullest instead of sitting here and worrying."

My lips twitch into a smile. "You're really wise, you know that, Bryon?"

He grins, rubbing his thumb against the back of my hand. "Well, at least I know all my suffering these long years was not in vain – now, I get to help you through yours. That's enough of a reward, I think. Listen, Penryn…" Gently, he squeezes my hands. "I'm not going anywhere in the foreseeable future." Bryon smiles tenderly. "Come to me if you ever need to discuss anything. If you ever feel overwhelmed by fear or if you just need a moment of calm, I've got my own flat now, and it's plenty quiet enough for relaxation or therapy discussions. I'm still here for you. I'll always, always be here for you."

"That goes double."

He raises a single eyebrow, smirking at me. "I'm sure it does. Now, skedaddle. You've got more interesting things to be doing than watch me pore over letters."

"Yeah…" I hesitate, smiling. I rise from my seat, leaning forward to squeeze Bryon's shoulder. "Hugo's bringing me food from downstairs. Bay promised me that he'd save me some food, but, well, Hugo's top dog in their relationship. I can't leave them waiting too long in Raffe's flat, or else they'll eat it all."

"I'm sure." As I walk back to the door, casting farewell glances over my shoulder, Bryon bows his head into the letter. "Oh, and Penryn? Leave the door unlocked – I'm expecting another visitor."

* * *

"So, this monster, Raphael…" Michael leans forward across the table. "Does it still dwell in these halls?"

Raffe shrugs. "Hell if I know. It's a ghost more than anything, and that's like nothing I've ever faced. Demons, Nephilim, Fallen – it's different."

Broodingly, the massive archangel stares into the foam of the beer before him. "And you said you killed it once? You severed its head from its body? How many witnessed this?"

"We all did," Josiah pipes up quietly. "Every one of us watched his blade slice off the creature's head."

Uriel's head jerks up, and a frown pulls down his lips. "Why are you skulking in the shadows? Go find something to do."

Unable to protest on his friend's behalf, unable to do anything but watch, Raffe sighs with frustration.

"Is what he said true?" Michael studies Raffe, his eyes glittering with the muted intelligence of a strategist. "Everyone saw it? Is that why it attacked no one? Safety in numbers?"

"I suppose so." Raffe shrugs, grasping at straws to keep himself afloat. "I'm not that much more enlightened about this thing, Michael. I don't have all the answers."

"Well, we'll just go with safety in numbers." Michael pushes up from the table without another word, soaring upwards in height. His armored plates scrape painfully against each other, and his heavy boots thud over the marble floor. Without of word of explanation, he strides from the conference hall.

"Where are you going, Michael?" Raffe sighs, feeling all-too-much like a babysitter.

"I'm calling my elite squad, telling them to move in."

"What?" Uriel lifts his head. "Why the hell would you do that?"

Michael glances back. "There's a monster on the loose, and I intend to catch it, if not slay it. I will do so by any means necessary. They're the best way. After all, I know they'll leave no stone unturned, unlike treacherous she-swine."

"That is not necessary, Michael," Raffe growls, standing and walking quickly after him. "Trust me. None of us can take this thing. Not even you."

The gleam of his eyes through his helmet is slightly amplified as he stares down the smaller archangel. "Why not? Because _you_ couldn't?"

Uriel's hissing laughter echoes through the room. "Damn, Raphael."

"Stay out of my way, Raphael, and get back to your politics." Michael lifts his gaze to Uriel. "And you, quit your sniggering, you sound like a snake on a high. Pull your acts together, both of you. Farewell and good luck."

* * *

"I have not seen many renditions of Sariel on television," Bay rumbles, cocking an eyebrow, "but this is by far the worst. A perverted, blue-haired creep, he is not."

"Then again, Satan doesn't work at McDonalds," I argue, watching the big-eyed people speak in their tittering voices as they argue back and forth.

"Hmm." Bay chuckles, grinning at the TV. "That's true. And the Hero's name, Emilia – that's the female form of Emilio. I think there's a reason this is my Prince's favorite show – the idea of the Nephilim being stuck-up little snobs and Satan being a part-time worker at McDonalds could be very appealing to him. Personally, I think he most resembles Lucifer, don't you?"

"Yeah." I watch pervy-Sariel obsess over the Japanese-sexism-girl's huge breasts. "Or maybe this guy."

"He's not quite that sex-driven." Bay lowers his voice. "Actually, there are rumors that it's just a method of intimidation – the real reason there have been no more Satan-babies is because Lucius is firmly against Lucifer's treatment of women, according to Luther. He says that Lucius hates rape of any type."

"Luther…" I frown. "That's his video-game obsessed brother, right? I'm not an expert on demon politics, but I heard they don't have the best of relationships."

"Lucius has no good relationship with anyone but himself," Bay acknowledges, "but the only thing that comes close to a mediocre one is with his brother, Luther. I had the great honor of fighting Aperture Science beside Luther one day when his usual gaming partner had been off on a business meeting. The demon truly is hard to disagree with – but, then again, I hear his genteel attitude can waver when presented with pretty women." He glances sharply towards me. "So maybe it'd be best if you steered clear."

I elbow him softly. "Thanks, Bay. I love you, man."

He inhales sharply, his cheeks reddening. "Penryn," he stammers, "I'm flattered, really, and you truly are a nice young woman, but my heart belongs to Hugo, and –"

"Not like that!" I interrupt, elbowing him again. "Friendwise. I love you as a friend."

"Oh." The color on Bay's cheeks only reddens. "Oh. My bad. I love you, too, then."

Stomaching laughter that would further embarrass him, I shoot Bay an understanding look, and bump his shoulder with mine. After another minute of silence, watching the Devil strip and Sariel make provocative comments, I ask, "Bay, what happened to that angel that Lucius turned?"

"Oh, he's dead now." Bay shrugs. "He had never been vaccinated or even exposed to viruses that you humans grow tolerant of during your youths. Bad way to go. It's a fate I wouldn't wish upon anyone."

"So, Lucius basically doomed that guy?" I shiver. "Yikes."

"He's expanded his protection, if you can call it that, just like he promised," he adds. "So far, there've been eighteen cases that we know of. It's scaring the pants off of angels everywhere – and it should."

I lean further back into the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. "Not that I'm ungrateful for the guy's help, I mean, sure, whatever we can muster, but I really… I really just don't like his methods."

"Lucius is a dangerous enemy to make," Bay says with a tip of his head. "Our relations have to be delicate with him. It certainly is good he has impartiality to you. I do believe he rather enjoys your presence, though he'd never say anything."

"Oh, yeah?" Somewhat disturbed by that, I turn to look at him. "What let you know that?"

"Well, I've never really seen him say anything truly demeaning to you. Most of the time, if he's got something to say, he'll say it. I don't know if it's because of indifference or true fondness, but he doesn't say anything truly terrible about you. In fact, I think there are only a seldom few that truly have his malevolence."

"Really?" I frown at him. "Hugo's right; you notice the most bizarre things."

Shrugging, Bay smiles sadly. "I wish I'd noticed more things about Theobella before this all happened. I made a loose note about how different all the interactions with her were after her rebirth, but I made no action to tell anyone. For example, the human brain is wired to recognize three things, and it is impossible for it not to: food, attractiveness, and danger. When usually, all eyes would first fly to Bryon or Raphael as the most dangerous force in the room, people would instead look at her. I thought it was odd, but decided that maybe she was more attractive in a fetish way than before."

"You're so strange, in a good way." I look at him long and hard. "Anything else you've deduced?"

Bay leans his head back, thinking hard. "No, not really. For a time, I will admit to having the quiet belief that Jesus, or 'Nephilim of Religious Bat-Shit' as Hugo calls him, was a love-child of Sariel and Mary. It would explain Bryon's hatred of him, and why he is so often depicted with the Young features of beauty. However, due to recent events, I've scratched that out, seeing Sariel's immense care for his wife and realizing that he would never, ever do anything like that to her."

I remain quiet. And, for a time, he does to, as if realizing that he'd screwed up. Hastily, he rushes onwards with more observations.

"I've noticed strange parallels, too," he says, smiling coaxingly at me. "For example, your father's eyes were blue as the sun above, and your uncle's are bronze. Many seemed to believe that Belle was a perfect blend of Bryon and Raphael, but it's not the only thing there is, is it? The realization that Titaniel maintains a strong similarity to Black Wolf and Lucius is almost exactly like White Wolf was made by me, too."

"What?" I jerk my head from its pillow.

"Oh, yes." Bay blinks benignly several times. "Lucius is the one most likely to be White Wolf. Did you not know anything of that?"

* * *

"Look what the cat dragged in." Bryon hardly looks up from his paper, his pen skating over the lines with only the whisper of ink. "Why are you here, Lucius? Be blunt."

"To apologize." Moodily, he toys with his deck of cards, glancing sourly around the room, as if hoping to drive the potted plants mad. "I need you as much as you need me, so it's best if we're on good terms, yes?"

"Is that the only reason?" Bryon sighs, giving the boy a stern glare. "When you stomped out last time, I could've sworn you had something to tell me."

"…I do." Taking back his arrogant drawl, Lucius saunters to the window, locking his hands behind him, looking out upon the world. "…As I was chasing after Tyab'la, she was… difficult to follow, more difficult than I would've desired."

"Yes, well." Bryon nods towards the chair where his niece had sat earlier, gesturing for the demon to sit. "She does have mastery over time. Trying to follow her through it would not be easy."

He slinks into his seat, almost sheepishly so, as if still trying to understand if Bryon's rage is still blazing or whether the full assumption of his asshole-façade would be allowed. "And it wasn't. She took me places I didn't want to be. She made me relive things I didn't want to see. And after I survived through all her different version of hell, she spoke to me."

Bryon chuckles solemnly, memorizing the boy's troubled face. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that you didn't like what you heard."

"She spoke to me about many interesting topics I'd rather not bring up." Lucius snorts. "One of them being that she always had a crush on me when we were children. Funny, the things that come to a lunatic's mind in a time of danger. However, most of it was none of your business – there is only one thing I wish to have… clarification on. Call it a sort of closure."

"Well, then." Bryon rolls his hand. "Speak your mind."

Lucius shuffles with the deck of cards he keeps with him at all times, his face full of thought, showing depth Bryon hadn't truly believed the Prince had. "She told me that everything was my fault. That… she only exists because the deal I struck. That my mother would've never followed her sister to such lengths to escape me had I never waltzed in. According to her, it's all on my shoulders, everything that's happened, everything that will happen. The deal was the domino that put things in motion."

Bryon's words are soft, pitying. "And you're wondering if that's true."

He remains silent, shuffling through his deck of cards, eyes downcast.

Sighing, the man bows his head, wondering how one could tackle such a subject gently enough for Lucius. "I'll be frank with you: it was the first domino to actually fall. However… the wind that blew the domino down was, through me, the Tyab'la. You knew nothing but what you'd seen as a child, and only then were you first introduced to the world beyond your doorstep, only then did you take the slightest interest in… everything. At the time, you only thought of saving those you loved."

"Do not dismiss my failure as being just," Lucius says coldly, "because I did it out of kindness. That's like saying Hitler should've been spared because he meant well. If anything, I proved my own point; I must always avoid acting on my heart's desires. For saving her, it seems, was not met with rejoice. I am hated, Bryon. I am despised. And I've figured out why, too.

"Here I am, torturing the very Wrath of God. I've taken away what he loves, his new _fascination_, and I keep appearing at every bend in the road. I'm driving him mad. In order to escape me, in order to… equal me, to fight me as a rival rather than a flea, he'll harden himself. He'll become that awful, callous man I knew in my childhood." Lucius cocks his head clinically to one side. "Not because of war or anything that it was dismissed as. Because of me. And because of him, I committed my first evil act, and thus was lead on this path to become stronger, to save the one I love most from him, while he attempts to save the same from me. We, dear Bryon, are a paradox, each of us driving the other mad."

"Then break free." Bryon studies the child, his heart pounding with pity. "You're driving each other mad because of your hate, the hate that the bitch is using to bind your lives together. Let go of that hate now, before it's too late."

"Oh, I tried." Lucius sighs, rubbing at his forehead. "Was that not clear? I tried to… right it all, make it so that I never existed. A simple deal that would've remedied everything. And then I started it all. So, you see, there's no way out of it."

"Yes, there is." He furrows his brow, wondering how to make his point clear. "Even if you believe your life is cursed by Raphael, you can still fight against the Tyab'la. You and her, you are equals. To lay yourself down at her feet like a carpet to blanket the ground would be truly pathetic."

"You're right, we're the same, she and I." Grouchily, Lucius rakes a hand through his hair. "But, contrary to popular belief, you can't fight fire with fire. We would be redundant, a match dealt with utter equality, lasting on for infinity."

"You two are very similar, I will admit." Bryon leans forward, gazing intensely at his student. "Very powerful, very aware of that power, both attempting to avenge things long forgotten in time's great spiral, and both whining children on the inside. You're both so very, very immature. Is it clear now?"

Lucius lifts his brow. "Is this a puzzle? Well done, Bryon, consider be stumped."

"You're not stumped, you're not even thinking," Bryon chastises. "She's a spoiled rotten brat, Lucius, and I've shown you how to take care of her. Just now. The reason you had to apologize to me in the first place. Do you remember what I did?"

"You toyed with my emotions," he recalls. "You told me off, yet you didn't even bat an eye when accepting my apology. What does that have to do with anything?"

"I don't remember accepting your apology." Bryon spears his paper with the tip of his pen. "Oh, come on boy, _think_. I treated you like an adult should treat a little brat, and that's the only way to deal with one. She's a little brat, Lucius. Don't fight fire with fire. _Grow up_."

* * *

**Bryon is having none of Lucius's shit.**

**Have a happy 2015, friends!**

**Also: "The Devil is a Part-Timer" is a show my sister watched a few weeks ago that I realized has a few creepy parallels. Not only does it star a Lucifer obsessed with the computer, a kindhearted demon general that does housework, and a Satan in love with McDonald's, but the main Nephilim hero is Emilia, which, as stated above, is the female form of Emilio. **

**POLL: Lucius is speaking of _a_ deal when he discusses what evidently screwed him over. For all you thinkers out there, it'll be fun to see what you try and make of it. So the poll is to make something of what he's saying.**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	63. Chapter Sixty-Two

**Chapter Sixty Two**

"I don't like this, Emilio."

"That makes two of us." He pauses in his egg-making, glancing over his shoulder and out the window, as if checking to make sure that we're still alone. "But your uncle's point makes a lot of sense. What better time to assassinate his niece than when he's out of the immediate area? Just relax, we're safe here."

"Well, now, Ogden and his goons are what, fifty yards away?" I gnash my teeth, curling up tighter into the fluffy blanket, peering suspiciously at the chipped wooden door. "Not to mention the Devil!"

"You have an amazing lack of faith in me." He dishes out a few of his scrambled eggs onto my chipped plate, and the delectable scent wafts over to me. "I'm not going to let you get killed. Besides, no one knows to look for you here – the doors are all locked, my mother is in the kitchens. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"I know that," I grumble, sinking deeper into the blanket until all I see is a sliver between the fabric's folds. "But am I the only one not okay with any of this? It's a bad idea. He's just tempting fate."

Emilio collapses beside me on the couch, causing some of my blanket to topple. He holds out my plate of scrambled eggs, waiting patiently for me to take it, and rolls his eyes slowly. "You've got to trust your uncle, Penryn. He knows what he's doing. Besides, it's not like you'd have been much safer back at the aerie – Hugo, Bay, and I were all instructed to be here, patrolling the area if you weren't going to come along, one of us with you if you were. You'd have been all alone back at the aerie."

"I can take care of myself." Moodily, I take the plate and shove a mouthful of scrambled eggs into my mouth – it isn't until the taste hits my tongue that I remember just how good well-cooked breakfast is. My eyes widen, and my grumpiness nearly falls aside. "Damn, this is good!"

"Thank you." He delicately spears quivering egg from his own plate. "I try."

"Can you make me breakfast every day?" Humming, I wolf down another piece, slowly chewing it and closing my eyes. "Emilio, in another life, you're going to be a chef."

"Well, considering the only thing I can make is scrambled eggs, I wouldn't be a very good one." He smiles, elbowing me through the blanket. "All I can see of you right now is your head and your hands. You're like a hermit crab."

"I can't help it!" I shrink further down into the blanket. "If I didn't, I would freeze my fingers off!"

Emilio's brow scrunches. His expression one of worry, he presses the back of his hand to my forehead, and his skin feels cool against mine. After a moment, he sighs, placing his dish onto a crappy coffee table and pushing himself up from the couch.

"Fever?" I ask.

"Small one." He rifles through the one cabinet in the tiny room. "My mother is saving a can of chicken noodle soup somewhere, she'd give it up to you in a heartbeat, anyway."

Guilt pangs in my chest. "I'm not going to eat her soup."

"You are, and you're going to like it." Emilio triumphantly holds the soup can to the sky. "Keep eating those eggs, protein is good for you. And stay under the blanket! Don't leave so much as a toe hanging out!"

Grumbling, I gather the blanket around me, burying myself the fluffiness of the fabric. "Jeez, since when did you become your mother?"

"Since when did you become your whiny boyfriend?"

"Emilio, please…" I falter, staring awkwardly out the window. "Please don't call him my boyfriend."

He glances up from the soup can he's trying to open with one of his massive swords, which I think is a little overkill. "Oh? Then what is he?"

"He's…" I shift uncomfortably. "Make me soup."

Chuckling, he returns to his work, popping open the top of the can. "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

Bryon's fake smile only grows achier and achier with each passing moment. The arguments between Lucius and his father have reached a new ferocity – it's beyond simple pranks, beyond mild annoyances. Spitting insults are hurled across the table in their native language, and, although Bryon doesn't understand much of the demonic tongue, he winces at what little comes across.

Ogden sits awkwardly besides him, the juxtaposition gathering an uncomfortable air between the two heads of the Nephilim. The only glances the older man has cast have been furtive, guilty – so strange when compared to the sad, accepting gazes Bryon offers in return.

On Bryon's other side is Obadiah – the leader, though he boasts a great sense of control over his mind and fears, seems to be alarmed by the bickering. Undoubtedly, somewhere along the way, he'd learned that the two demons are the incarnation of evil and the incarnation of madness. In an already nerve-wracking situation, it's easy for Bryon to see how even such a calm man could begin to cave into primal terror.

"Enough." Out of his comrade's discomfort, Bryon slams a fist down upon the table. "You two, stop, this instant." Bryon bares his teeth at the boy, growling, capturing his attention. "Lucius! I said stop!"

Rumbling a final poisoned jibe, Lucius leans back in his chair, reluctantly returning his gaze to Bryon. A tingle of satisfaction goes down Bryon's spine upon the realization that the boy now truly respects him as a man, and not as livestock.

"Look," Bryon sighs, glancing once towards the impassive Seraph leader, "we're all here to unite or to decide that we all really flipping hate each other, like we have at every other meeting. I, for one, would like this company to get along for once. It's not just our petty feelings to be halved if we fail this time. Our people and Obadiah's are in need of our assistance. Hold yourselves together."

_I – I agree with Bryon. _Ogden's cheeks flare red. _We need to focus, for the humans._

"Funny, I was under the impression that you too hated each other." With his thick growl of a voice, Lucifer pokes up trouble nearly as well as his son. "After all, isn't Ogden a traitor to the crown and Bryon a traitor to his people?"

Moving quickly to diffuse the situation, Bryon cocks his head to one side, speaking in a cool monotone. "Just because two people are on different sides of a war does not instigate hatred. I cannot speak for you, Ogden, but I do not hate a soul in this room."

"I do," Lucius sighs grievingly.

"Quiet, boy," Lucifer snarls. "No one cares."

"Gentlemen, please." Steeling himself visibly, Obi attempts to gain the attention of the titans. "No need to be animals about this."

"That's rather strange to hear from a monkey," King Makiel trills in his high-pitched Seraphic voice.

"Makiel, that was uncalled for!" Bryon chides, disgusted by prejudice amongst the Seraphim, of all people.

Makiel turns his glowing green gaze upon the Dragon King, standing up and looming overhead with his six wings unfurling hostilely. "Oh, trust me, reptile, it could've been much worse."

"Sit down," Lucius orders in a vindictive tone of voice. "Didn't you hear a word of what he said?"

"You keep your mouth shut!" Lucifer howls.

Sighing heavily, Bryon buries his face in his palms, a low groan building in the pit of his throat. He kneads at his forehead, futilely attempting to be rid of his throbbing headache. Arguments echo over the table, the only silence to be found beside him in the form of Ogden.

Which, considering the hell in his life can be lead back to the older Nephilim, is amusingly ironic.

* * *

"Okay, so this is happening." Audiat nervously jitters around with a feather that'd molted a minute ago. She exhales sharply, trying to get her spirits high. "Rebelling against superiority for a guy. Ha! I'm so cliché. But it's not just for him, is it? Hugo, Penryn, Baelan... Is it bad that I'm so nervous? Shouldn't I feel more rebellious?"

"Nerves are part of it," Daisy comforts, cupping her cheek, "but you really shouldn't worry so much. Rumor has it that Lucifer is going to stop by during their little debate today – Ariel'll be too distracted to worry about 'chu."

"Okay." Audiat beams up at her, walking in place a little to warm her numb toes. "Okay. Wolf me, I'm going in."

Gently, Daisy guides Thea's old mount, a feisty, silver-eyed wolf by the name of Cara, to Audiat's side. The animal grumbles and growls, focusing one metallic eye upon her as it sidles reluctantly into place, pulled along by a cruel mouth-harness. Trying to appear calm and dominant as one should around these creatures, especially this particular one, Audiat marches stiffly forward and grabs the reins.

She's faintly aware of Daisy watching her, and of the other woman's amusement, but she decides to dismiss it – it's not the first time she's been treated as an entertainment for others. Not for Bryon, though. Bryon always takes her seriously, even if he smiles at her or chuckles. He knows what sure means, always.

A warm blush enters Audiat's cheeks as she thinks of the man. Her memories of him, strong, youthful, and bold, hardly seem to belong to the man she'd seen lying in bed, his face, though still beautiful, marked with lines of age. The laughter in his tone had been impossible to imagine as he'd choked out her name, broken and searching. Though she hates it, doubt still worms around viciously in her stomach – is he really the man she left behind?

A faint memory of Bryon's gentle smile, seen through a dream provided by the Black Wolf, flashes through her memory. Of course he's the same. He's Bryon. The good man.

Shaking off her doubts with a twist of her head, she smiles frailly towards Daisy, trying to convey her nervousness through that glance, before tugging herself up on the wolf's back. It skitters and prances beneath her. She climbs her way to the top of the wolf despite, clawing at its shoulders and taking fists of fur. Swaying in the saddle, she turns down towards Daisy, who's trying not to break into laughter, and waves.

"Bye, Daisy." Audiat giggles nervously. "Let's hope that I don't fall off."

"You be careful, Audiat." Daisy backs away, her amusement becoming suspicion. "Just because you can cross Lucius's invisible line doesn't mean you'll be met with open arms. If anything pops up, just retreat a bit, and wait for him to come to you. I guarantee it'll happen."

"But that's not what I want it to be like!" Audiat insists. "I don't want him to walk up to me – I want to walk up to him, to show him that I remember what he looks like!"

"Alright, alright." Crossing her arms over her chest, she waves Audiat forward. "Off you go, then. And good luck to you!"

"You, too!" Audiat takes a deep breath, and gently kicks at Cara's side, goading her into a slow trot. "Tell Ariel I'm sorry!"

Daisy's agreement is lost in the pounding of Cara's paws. Audiat casts her head back, staring up at the evening sky – not yet sunset, but ringed with the first dusky clinging to the sides of the mountain, making the shadows rosy and smudging the descending sun with shades of purple and pink. The air is crisp, cold, against her lungs. She shuts her eyes for a moment, allowing her mind to be soothed by the sun as it slowly droops back against the earth, falling into slumber.

Opening her eyes, Audiat drives her heels into the wolf's side. She urges it onwards with a word, and, like a strea of twilight, they race together over the golden plains and towards the human camp.

* * *

Baelan is fairly aware of the child approaching. But, out of a loss of what to do, he attempts to ignore her, even veering from his set path. However, the child, a brunette, pudgy-faced little girl, remains steady on her path. She does not have the face of a quitter. Baelan's stomach trembles.

"Can I help you?" he questions at last, turning patiently to the little child, if only to scare her off his tail.

Paling, she scampers back. "N-no sir," she says with a loud, squawking voice. "My brother just dared me to get close to you. He says I'm too chicken."

"Well." Smiling at the child with a sudden surge of warmth, Baelan reaches in his back pocket for a Smartie roll he'd received from the youngest Young. "It shall be you and not your brother who'll be rewarded, then. Go on, it's not poisoned or anything."

She takes it suspiciously, eyeing the candy with a combination of lust and caution. "How can I trust you? Why do you look so weird?"

Baelan chuckles, sinking into a kneel before the child. "What's your name, sweetie?"

"Mary-Grace with a dash. You?"

"Well then, Mary-Grace with a dash, my name is Bay." He tilts his head to one side, smiling. "The other angels didn't like me very much. I was too nice for them. So they threw me out. See, they don't like nice people very much. That's why they go after your people."

She giggles, popping in a Smartie and speaking around it – at that, Baelan's smile quavers as he recalls that he was going to give the candy to Hugo during his proposal, but he quickly ignores the thought.

"They don't like nice people?" Mary-Grace asks, bouncing up and down. "They would like my brother, then!"

Baelan tosses his head back with laughter.

"I think," he laughs, grinning down at little Mary-Grace, "that your brother was afraid of me when he sent you over to test the waters. I think you're braver than him."

"That's not true!" pipes up a little voice from atop the hill. Galloping from the shadows of the small, shabby tenements, a boy looking about ten years of age wades through the knee-length grass to Bay's side.

"Oh, isn't it now?" he says, smiling at the newcomer. "I take it your Mary-Grace's brother…?"

"Michael."

Baelan's eyebrows rise.

"And I'm not scared of you!"

"Well, it seems not," Baelan agrees, trying his very hardest to keep his tone from being condescending. "That's of course why you sent your younger sister in first towards a potentially dangerous unidentified person with little to no regard of her safety."

The child wilts a little at that. "Oh, yeah, sorry… but you're not, right? Not bad? You're cool? Hey, can I have a Smartie?"

Baelan shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest, ignoring the stab of guilt in his heart – how could he have been so silly, giving a Smartie to one sibling without thinking of the other? "I'm sorry, I only had the one. I'm sure you sister will share."

"No!" Mary-Grace kicks at Michael's shin. "These are all mine! MINE!"

"You don't have to shout!" the boy shrieks back, clapping his hands over his ears. "You're gonna break our eardrums!"

To this, of course, the little girl balls her fists around the Smartie roll, stamps at the ground, and releases an earsplitting scream. Baelan winces away from the noise, gritting his teeth, grunting and pulling at his earlobe. The boy apparently feels challenged by her scream, and the sound doubles in volume as he yells back at her.

Another person begins to stare. Baelan notices uncomfortably that he's attracting quite an audience. Anxiously, he flails his hands about, wondering how to stop the children – clap a hand over their mouths? Hold them by the shoulders? Shush them?

Exhaling stressfully, Baelan rakes his hands through his hair, looking around for a mother or some other familial saving grace.

Over the rooftops and their loose shingles, like the tail of a flag quivering in the wind, he glimpses two shadowy black wings.

Resting a hand on either of their shoulders, Baelan gently shoves the children down into the grass, hearing the whistle of wind beneath leathery wings. "Hide. Quickly."

As if they, too, feel the weight of danger in the air, they don't protest – Michael goes so far as to wrap his arms around Mary-Grace, gazing fearfully up at the sky. Baelan, crouching, watches in silence as the shadows dance over the rooftop, the two demons flying high above in utter silence. People fall silent as they pass. Perhaps the genius of the human brain allows them to see that danger is eminent, and that the creatures drifting high above are never to be bothered, like mice in the shadow of a lion.

Even as the shadows drift onwards, soaring elegantly across the planes of golden wheat, Baelan keeps quiet. The children shift awkwardly and peer through the grass, but they don't move. Eerie quiet swallows the sky.

"What was that?" Mary-Grace asks quietly. She stares up at Baelan with large, frightened eyes, like a little mouse after seeing the shadow of a passing eagle.

Baelan watches as the two dark blots dive down into the hole of the Triangle, descending like birds of prey. He doesn't rip his gaze from them, even after they disappear. A hand settles comfortingly upon the back of the little girl.

"That, Mary-Grace," he murmurs, "is the very pinnacle of not-nice."

Michael tugs on Baelan's sleeve. "What's pinnacle mean?"

"It means that the calm before the storm is coming to an end." Baelan stares down at the children, demanding their gazes. "Listen to me. There's inevitably something coming, and I don't know what. For now, keep your heads out of sight. Find a place to hole up. Tell friends and family to do the same."

"What's going on?" Mary-Grace wails, waving her hands around. She still has her Smartie, balled up in her fist.

Baelan smiles brittly. "Get safe, children. Tell everyone to do the same."

* * *

"Michael, this is madness!" Uriel growls, shaking his head. "We can't – we can't socialize with the likes of _them!_"

Calmly, the archangel turns an eye upon his friend, smiling with uncanny tranquility. "Then what else are we supposed to do, Uriel? Tell me. We cannot approach the rodents living outside our doorstep without dire consequence. The ones that cause us to refrain from victory can be negotiated with. I see no problem in this."

"Right," Raphael agrees, his scowl deepening, "other than the fact that the she-angels have formed treaties with those humans. They've got a deal, Michael. Who cares if the monkeys have extra layers of protection? If we lay a finger on any of them, there'll be hell to pay."

"I second that," Ariel asserts, narrowing her eyes. She waltzes closer to the heart of the conversation, her scarred arms crossed over her chest. Eyes tinted darker than the pits of hell glare darkly around at all who dare to meet her gaze.

"And I'd like to backtrack a bit," Lucifer huffs. "Why can't y'all just raze that town? Please, do it now, before anyone can escape."

"First off, 'y'all', seriously?" Raffe raises an eyebrow, shaking his head disapprovingly. "Secondly, if any of us cross an invisible line surrounding that little monkey village, we grow tails and drop our wings. Did you not know that?"

Lucifer stares dumbly at Raffe, his pure white lids fluttering over the pitless black of his eyes in surprise. Slowly, his pale lip curls with anger.

From behind Lucifer, his son laughs nervously, playing with a deck of cards. "Hey, Daddy Dearest, I found that Father's Day card from a few years back… how about we have a nice, bonding chat, eh?"

* * *

**Lucius always seems to be stirring up trouble, doesn't he?**

**POLL: Give me a little bit of feedback about Michael's character, please!**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	64. Chapter Sixty-Three

**Chapter Sixty Three**

"You little fucktard!" Lucifer bellows, his scythed wings looming over his head, growing wider and wider with each stalking step towards the Prince. "You're going to abandon your own kind for _them?_ For those filthy, _good-for-nothing_ bastards?"

"Your kind is not my kind," the boy spits angrily, baring white, needlike teeth dripping with black venom at his father, "and you've called me a filthy, good-for-nothing bastard before, if my memory serves correctly. So maybe you should be thanking the humans for scraping me off your plate!"

Lucifer roars with fury, jabbing an angry finger at his boy. "You dare disrespect our family like this! Think of your brother, of me! You've made fools of us all!"

"It's not as if you weren't expecting this!" Lucius snarls, raking a hand through his hair. "I've not been exactly the poster-child for an obedient son!"

"_But siding with the monkeys!?_" Lucifer roars, his eyes bugging with rage. "By God, you're the worst piece of shit demon to ever roam this world, _but you are a demon!_ You are no monkey!"

"The worst demon?" Lucius's demeanor changes entirely, going from petty rage to ice-cold impassiveness. The shadows warp his face into something spectral, something dark. "Oh, Daddy Dearest, you don't know the even know the definition of demon. Do you think you're the perfect one, hmm? That because of a few Satanists in the midst, you have the right to call yourself the best? Because you've been around longer…"

Raffe jumps as Lucius quite literally disappears, fading like a shadow in noonday sun. Unease prickles over his skin.

"…_it makes you the best?_"

Isolating Lucifer, the angels group together, facing outwards and drawing weapons. The light peeking through the windows mutes in color, but whether that can be credited to the setting sun or the demon is unknown. Lucifer whips around, slowly drawing his sword, baring his teeth.

"Do you even know what it's like, hmm?"

An icy wind stirs the curtains and toys with Raffe's hair.

"To be _feared_ as much as I am?"

His chilling cackle echoes off the ceiling, infusing a sense of dread in Raffe's stomach, causing his hand to tighten around the hilt of his sword. Where is the demon hiding?

"Obviously… _not_. Shall I _show you_ terror?"

* * *

"Penryn!" Bryon strides powerfully towards me, his face one of firm disapproval and tender worry. "Penryn, what are you doing out here? Running around? You're not well enough for this."

"No, she's not," Emilio agrees with an exasperated sigh from beside me. "Did you hear, she's running a fever? She's also running around. I'm sorry, your niece wouldn't see reason."

"Well, you weren't exactly putting up a huge fight," I mutter darkly, slapping him across the arm. Ignoring his scalding glare, I ask in a louder voice, "Bryon, what's going on? Why did the Devil head over to the she-aerie? Isn't that a disaster waiting to happen?"

"Maybe." His eyes betray his hidden storm of conflicting emotions, despite the handsomely contented mask he wears over his expression. "We shall have to see. However, I'm urging everyone to stay calm. Please, please don't go around spreading panic. It only ever worsens the situation."

"Sorry," mumbles Bay, plodding up like a scolded puppy, his eyes downcast.

"Don't be downhearted, friend," Bryon says, nudging Bay softly with his staff. "You got two kids out of harm's way, and gave them a warning. That's hardly spreading a panic."

Glancing around at everyone amassed, I count heads – the only one of the boys missing is Hugo. Before I can ask where the little bugger lost himself too, Emilio elbows me gently and interrupts my train of thought.

"You should get back inside," he insists, placing his palm back over my forehead and frowning. "Your fever's not as bad, but that doesn't mean it won't get worse."

"I don't want to go in, not quite yet." I shrug his hand off and sidestep around his next attempt to rein me in, feeling a bit like a stubborn six-year-old. "Bryon, what happened at the meeting? Is there some peace treaty? I mean, obviously not, but… what happened?"

He sighs heavily, layering his hands at the top of his staff, then resting his chin upon them. "Nothing I had hoped. Luther apparently had business to attend to elsewhere, leaving Lucifer with Lucius alone. That should be all I have to say."

Bay winces, rubbing his hands together. "Ah, ah, Ogden."

"Yes," Bryon rumbles, closing his eyes, "that was extremely awkward… and excruciatingly painful."

"I'm sure it was, but, ah, Ogden." Bay points to somewhere in the distance, towards the shooting ranges. "Isn't he supposed to be leaving?"

I squint, and sure enough, there he hobbles, heading steadily towards the woods. True, my vision isn't the best, but he seems to be slower than usual, his gait more hobbling than usual – maybe the meeting was excruciatingly painful for him, too. It doesn't make much sense to feel pity for the man that's accordingly out for my head, but I do.

"It looks like he is." Emilio frowns, looking dissatisfied with such an answer. "He's probably got a wolf out in the woods somewhere. I wonder why he came alone – it's not like we were planning anything, but it's rather stupid." He sighs, rolling his eyes. "More reason for me to oppose that party, I suppose."

Bryon shrugs indifferently. "Honestly, if I were him, I would've done the same thing. He's independent, and he doesn't like feeling weighed down by ceremony. That's not a bad thing. If you're going to hold a grudge against someone, Emilio, at least make it in a manner I can respect."

Bowing his head, the Spaniard responds with a quiet, only slightly sarcastic apology.

"I hate to break in, but Penryn, you are pale." Bay cocks his head to one side, his face one of extreme concern. "Are you sure it's only a fever that ails you?"

"Last time I checked," Hugo calls from behind me somewhere, "it was a bit more than that, Baymobile. Pretty sure you were the one that diagnosed her broken bones, actually."

The boy strides up upon a silly, grinning dog I haven't seen in some time – Scruffy. Hugo's leaning back in the saddle and allowing the wolf steer primarily, a lazy sort of content shining in the boy's eyes. Scruffy tosses his head and whines with each steady step he takes towards us, his ears perked, his eyes bright and sparkling. His tongue laps futilely at the air, as if he's trying to lick us all from a twenty feet away.

"So, the mutt's healed?" Emilio asks, patting Scruffy's shoulder as he passes.

"The mutt is healed," Hugo confirms, grinning. "Back and ready for action.

"Oh, hello," I mutter as the wolf slathers me in drool, his tongue lapping excitedly from chin to forehead. "Hey, I've missed you, too, man."

I attempt to shove his muzzle away, but that only seems to encourage him. Overjoyed yips and playful growls bubble up from his throat, but my laughter is always muffled by his kisses. No matter how much I try to back away or swat him aside, he always manages to keep licking.

Emilio whistles beside me, clucking his tongue appetizingly. "Oi, mutt, come lick someone that's not mortally maimed, eh?"

Yelping in glee, his eyes lighting up, Scruffy switches targets. The delight in Scruffy's expression is absolutely adorable, and the frown on Emilio's lips less so. With a pained grunt, the Spaniard is thrown flat on his back, pinned beneath the wolf's paws as he lavishes every inch of Emilio's face using his great, slobbering tongue.

"Oh, my," Bay muses, his eyes flicking between my attempts to wipe my slobbery face on my sleeves and Emilio kicking up at Scruffy's long, long legs in an attempt to free himself. "Hugo, control your dog."

"Why?" The boy flexes, groaning as he does so. "It won't do anything, he's too much of a licking machine. You can't teach a stupid dog manners. But hey, there's someone on the way here. They kind of hid for a while in the wheat after Thing One and Thing Two took a nice little flight test, but they've continued their journey. Call me an idiot, the wolf they were riding, but it looked like Cara. On a totally different note, I'm going to set up a livestream video."

"What are you even talking about?" Bryon chuckles, shaking his head slowly. "You work on a different frequency than the rest of us, Hugo."

"Bah, I'm just delightfully original," Hugo scolds, pulling his laptop from Scruffy's saddlebag and clicking eccentrically at the keys. A howl pierces over the rooftops, sounding significantly more angry than usual. Hugo grins wolfishly, lifting his head and staring down the main street. "And that, good sir, is an Audiat on stampede.

A wolf comes into my line of sight, bucking its shoulders violently like a horse trying to be rid of a rider. Initially, the same sort of stunned amusement seems to be shared with everyone else – we watch silently as the wolf rams into the sides of buildings, trying to through the little tiny woman brave enough to enter the saddle.

The animal lowers its head with a snarl, and the little woman yanks back on the reins, pulling its mouth backwards in a manner that can't be comfortable. Her petite voice through the square as she furiously orders the beast back, trying to get it under control.

"Oh, God, Audiat," Bryon whispers, dismayed, "what the hell are you doing?"

Evidently, the wolf dislikes her methods, too, throwing down its head, bracing its paws, and flaring its nostrils.

With a noise that sounds more like a roar than a growl, the wolf throws all of its effort into a headlong charge.

My heart thrusts into full-throttle. The wolf is charging straight toward us, white fangs bared in a terrible, enraged grimace. Its paws drive into the skin of the earth like daggers as it pounds closer.

Before the wolf reaches us, it halts in its tracks, throwing Audiat forward and unsettling her balance. In the blink of an eye, it's moving again, rearing up on its hind paws and towering above for a few teetering seconds. With a growl of hatred, slams its body weight onto its back, the goal without a doubt to crush its rider beneath pounds of muscle.

I gasp in horror as Audiat momentarily disappears beneath the fur. Emilio unsheathes his swords.

Scrambling back to its feet, the wolf charges again, leaving a battered Audiat leaning forward in the saddle to recapture the reins in her hands. She pitches forward slightly too much, and the wolf rises onto its hind legs again, not wasting an opportunity. An angry howl escapes its lips, and it begins to thrust itself downwards again.

Snarling, Bryon leaps forward, ripping the reins from Audiat's hands and nearly causing her to fly off the saddle. He yanks down at the wolf's bridle brutally, causing its front legs to slam with painful crunches back to the ground. Halted in its rampage, the creature howls, whipping its head back and forth, trying to get Bryon's grip to loosen.

The wolf puffs and rears up. Bryon snarls and yanks down on his rope. There they stand, an impasse, staring into each other's eyes. Both seem exhausted, chests heaving, with foam leaking from the mouth of one and sweat caking the forehead of the other.

Audiat launches herself from the saddle at the first chance she receives. She hits the ground awkwardly and crawls like a lizard away from the wolf, casting nauseous glances back towards the nightmare ride. Her face is slightly green, and, though I can't understand the tongue she speaks in, I'm pretty sure she's not praising the Lord.

Seeing her safely off the wolf in the corner of his eye, Bryon refocuses on the problem at hand. He releases Cara's reins, allowing her to charge off into the woods and lose herself amongst the brambles.

Caring little for the wolf, he stands frozen, shocked, for a few moments. His mouth falls open as Audiat rises to her feet. His eyes water when Audiat coughs softly, glaring after the wolf reproachfully.

"Dogs!" she huffs, balling her fists. "I don't like dogs! Why can't we just ride horses?"

Scruffy whines poutingly in the otherwise quiet.

Audiat meets Bryon's eyes.

My heart swells to the size of a balloon at her reaction to him. Bay and Hugo exchange knowing glances, and the Fallen angel drapes a wing over the boy's shoulders, hugging him close. Even bitter old Emilio smiles, leaning against the trunk of a tree, his face half-hidden by the overhanging leaves.

Making a soft noise in his throat, Bryon surges forward.

"Are you hurt?" he insists, freaking out over Audiat, gently turning her around and looking her over. "Did she hurt you? Is anything wrong? You didn't break any bones, did you?" He takes one of her arms into his hands, gently probing for fractures. "Oh, God, are you going into shock? Audiat, my Audiat, please –"

She claps a hand against the side of his face, her thumb softly gliding over the skin just beneath his eye.

He freezes under her touch, looking down into her soft gaze. Like a block of ice melting before a hearth's warmth, his worry trickles off, and a wry smile twists at his lips.

"You're perfectly fine, aren't you?" he chuckles, rising back up to his full height – with any other pair, their difference in size would be alarming, but with them, it's just adorable.

She beams up at him, eyes twinkling like rubies. "Yes, I am. Thanks for that. Without you, I wouldn't be."

Bryon laughs quietly. "Silly Audiat. You should've known better." For a long time, he doesn't say anything more. Expression as soft as velvet, Bryon gives Audiat all his attention, tracing every contour of her face. His thumb massages against her cheekbone, a simple, tiny caress.

Their eyes seem not to move from each other – I suppose it's because, though the face may age and hair may grow and people may change, the eyes always remain the same.

Those eyes seem strangely right with each other, too. One a cherry red blemished with maroon, pink, and dusky brown, the other a bright, gleaming bronze, catching the light like a cat's.

Breaking the moment, Audiat giggles abruptly, reaching up towards the sky, standing on her tippy toes and stroking at his chin.

"I can't reach you," she says with a flippant laugh hiding deeper, throatier emotion. "I would stroke your face, too. It's the thought that counts, right, though?"

"It is." Bryon ducks his head and bends his knees slightly, allowing her fingers to gently slide up his face. "There we go, that's better, isn't it?" He leans into her hand, half-shuttering his eyes, and sighing with deep, wistful pleasure. "Mmm. How have you been doing, Audiat?"

"Okay." She strokes at his cheek as if it's a most grave matter, an important job she mustn't screw up. "I mean, considering. They're going to be a lot better now that you're back."

Bryon laughs hollowly, shutting his eyes and nuzzling against Audiat's hand. Her eyes grow softer and her mouth opens with unspoken words. Slowly, his laughter degrades, losing its cheerful, bouncing melody, sounding more and more like tearless sobs with each one. Shoulders shaking, he kisses the palm of her hand.

"I've missed you, Ah-ch'at," he whispers. "I've missed you… _so much_."

A tear slips down Audiat's cheek. "I love you. Oh, God, Bryon, I love you." She snorts in the midst of her tears. "_Bryon_. Your name sounds so ugly now. Bree-aw' was so much more… elegant. Much more you."

His lips twitch into a smile, and he peeks those bronze eyes open. "Oh, really? I hadn't put much thought into it."

"Well, I have." Audiat scowls stormily at the ground. "Everything is so ugly in this language. Say your name, real slow – Bryyyyyon. _Bryon_. It's just not good. No – no _elegance_. You are the Nephilim King, and stories have been told about your magnificence for centuries. Bryon does not sound like the name of that man. Bree-aw' was just perfect."

"Well, Audiat isn't bad," he says with a optimistic chortle. "At least we've got that working for us. I think it's cute, actually, that extra syllable. Doesn't have the same charm as Ah-ch'at, but it's really not all that different, eh?"

"Hmph." She looks like she wants to cross her arms over her chest. "If you say so. I'm not sure why our names had to be changed, anyway – it's stupid! I loved our names!"

"There are more trying things to be focused on, Ah-ch'at," Bryon chuckles, holding her face gingerly in both hands. "Although I'll see what I can do about our names later. Uh, I see – I see you've met Penryn."

Audiat glances towards me, and I return her grin happily, enthralled by their lack of lustful emotions, by their simple adoration of one another. The platonic bond they share is incredible – they're not pressing their bodies together, not meeting each other with one untidy kiss after the other. It seems strange, from another universe, almost. Though it's weird, I can see why Hugo's waited so anxiously for this moment.

"Is that all you see?" Audiat stands on the tips of her toes, wiggling with her lack of balance, and brushes back a lock of hair that'd fallen into his eyes. "That better?"

"Much," Bryon chuckles, gently nudging a clump of her ringlets out of her face. "I thought you were beautiful before, little angel. I can't wait to have you back by my side, fighting together again, like the good old days. Now, answer honestly: you haven't watched Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron yet, have you?"

"You nerd," Hugo mutters quietly.

Grinning at Hugo, Audiat shakes her head. "Negative. I'm clean. Why are you so obsessed with that movie, anyway? I mean, I'm sure it's great, but I never took you to be very into horses."

"I find the horse, who is nameless and not actually Spirit" – he taps the end of her nose with a lecturing finger – "to be a very relatable character. He gave up everything for his family and was enslaved by a bunch of evil people invading his homeland so they could escape, until he learned that not all the people were evil, and fell in love. It's a great story."

Audiat pretends to muse for a second, furrowing her eyebrow. "Now, who does that sound like?" She jabs him once playfully in the stomach. "That's some extreme narcissism, seeing a movie that was made in your honor."

Bryon's face is beyond amused. "Are you saying that _I _made a movie about me as a yellow pony?"

"Well, you tell me."

"I did not make a movie about me as a yellow pony." Bryon rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. "What do you think I am? The entire reason I love it so much is because it had nothing to do with me or any Nephilim. It was an epic, emotional story told from the same studio that made train-wrecks like Shrek."

"Shrek was good," Hugo defends, looking up from his laptop's livestream of the event. "Don't you be ripping on Shrek."

Sighing with depression, Bryon drops the subject, looking quite disappointed with Hugo. "So, according to rumor, you've been jumping down a bunch of angels' throats. I take it your job as a political advisor and diplomat worked out."

"It most certainly did." She grins beatifically. "The he-angels quiver at the name of Audiat. Okay, well, maybe they don't quiver physically, but their minds do. Short and saucy has never been so feared. I love it – it's the best thing ever, getting respect. Plus, no one can tell you're short when you're up on a stage! It's like, everything I ever wanted!"

"There are worse things in the world than being short, Audiat," Bryon chuckles with a roll of his eyes.

"Well, says the Jolly Green Giant!" she grumps. "People look right over me in a crowd! And you know what? The human race has gotten even taller! I don't want to bore you to death with one of my rants, but… it's unfair!"

"I'm so sorry that you're just a lil' angel." Hunching his back Bryon leans down and rests his forehead on Audiat's, touching their noses together. His eyes close, and his hums contentedly. "You're my lil' angel, you know that? I wouldn't have it any other way – besides, you'd be rather intimidating if you were tall."

"Well, yeah…." Audiat's demeanor had changed after "his lil' angel", and awkwardness replaces the tender affection in their aura. "Uh, Bree-aw'?"

He leans into her hand, breathing in her scent. "Hmm?"

Something is stressing her out, I know it is. She glances down bitterly, her lips pursing and her brow furrowing. "I hate to ask, but I have to know…" She takes a deep breath. "Bryon, have you been faithful to me? Please, please, be honest, I'll forgive you for anything, no matter how terrible."

His eyes widen, then warm endearingly. Squaring his shoulders, Bryon straightens his spine, smiling beatifically down at her – the childish pride in his eyes is soft and malleable, thick enough to drown in.

"I didn't do anything remotely unfaithful. I refused to kiss people even when it was a cultural taboo." He takes her hands in his, holding them tight. "I've been the best husband you could ever ask for, Audiat. I'm almost worthy of you."

That little boy shines through his wise old façade. He's adorably proud of being a perfect husband. Audiat couldn't have been destined for a more perfect man.

But, instead of giggling and throwing her arms around him as I'd expected, the little she-angel bows her head. The emotion swimming in her eyes doesn't ever lead to anything positive, especially since she avoids his gaze. Her wings tremble, and, slowly, she slips her hands out of his. Her expression is one of hatred and guilt.

Slow, slow comprehension dawns upon my uncle. Bryon's happiness crumbles to disbelief, like a window pane being shattered. He mouths something beneath his breath, shaking his head slowly. They sit there, frozen, as they wait for one to make a move, to speak.

"Oh, Ah-ch'at," Bryon sighs sorrowfully, wrapping her up in an embrace, kissing at the top of her head. "It's okay. It's alright. Don't you dare cry. Don't you dare."

"I'm so sorry," Audiat weeps against his chest. "I'm so, so sorry. I couldn't – I'm sorry, I didn't want to, he made me. Oh, God, Bryon, I'm sorry."

"He forced himself on you?" The rage in his eyes isn't the type that's quenched, but merely, set aside for a better time. "Well, that hardly counts, then. _Audiat. I don't care_." He kisses at her hair, gently rocking her from side to side, looking out at the world with glassy eyes. "You're my girl, Audiat. My little star. Lil' angel. I don't care."

"It was awful," she croaks, rubbing off her tears with a fold of Bryon's cloak. "I love you, Bryon, so much. I'm so sorry. If I could go back…"

"Audiat, it's okay," Bryon soothes, pulling at one of her curls, watching it bounce back into place. "Hey, hey, hey. You need to be distracted. Hmm. I saw the stained glass windows. What do you think you were doing there, eh?"

Audiat giggles weakly against him. "I knew I'd get scolded for that. You can't tell me how to live my life. If I'm going to make art out of sharp, dangerous pointy things, you _can't_ stop me."

"Did you sweep up all the little fragments?" Bryon preens her hair, grooming each of her curls individually. "You didn't do it on a rug, did you? Because if you did, I need to get rid of that rug, this instant. The shards will cling to the fabric, and there's no way to get rid of them."

"Overprotective, much?" Emilio chuckles, emotions of approval soft in his gaze.

"I agree with the fluffy-kitten-Spaniard; stop being such a worry-wart," Audiat chides, wriggling out of his arms to grin up at her husband.

Bryon sticks out a pouting lip teasingly, a grin threatening to ruin his imitation of her. "But then you'll crack your head open doing something stupid. If I don't worry about you, who will?"

"Bree-aw'," she groans gigglingly, "I love you so much. …I've missed having you worrying about me, truth be told. I've missed you more than new paints or new cloths or whatever else. I've missed your laugh more than anything in the world."

That, of course, stirs a laugh from Bryon. "Well, I'll be sure to giggle at every remark you make to compensate for lost time. I hate to go off subject, but I noticed something when I was in your room – I remember putting some awful holes in your ceiling. But the painting up there was brilliant. I have to know – how did you manage that?"

Audiat bounces up and down happily. "No one's asked about that yet! It took a lot of effort, too. See, originally, I was going to paint this picture of the sky, with clouds and birds and maybe a rainbow, because I sleep better without a roof over my head. I knew you did, too. And so I painted it this pretty powder blue color – it was gorgeous. But it's hard to paint and fly, so the paint was all uneven, and so it clumped and dripped down. It was a mess. But once it was all dried and spots were left behind on the ceiling where the drops were, I thought it looked an awful lot like stars, you see. And then I realize: if I'm falling asleep to this sky, why the blazes do I want a sunny day?"

On and on, she chatters, nestling herself beneath Bryon's arms as she does – and, unlike a lot of the guys that I've unfortunately come in contact with, he actually seems to care about what she's saying. Occasionally, he breaks in through the babbling with comments like, "Oh! I hadn't thought of that! I was thinking of using the blue tint and mixing it with the grey, but that's cleverer."

Audiat prattles a bit about deciding to put flowers in the ceiling mural, too – she talks about how she had to break out a secret store of blooming flowers that's apparently kept in her closest to study them as they float upwards. Excitedly, she explains her discovery in that all the blossoms she'd collected when Bryon had created the glow spun clockwise, and Sariel's spun counter-clockwise.

"…and that's how that happened." Audiat snuggles up against Bryon's chest, all thoughts of her unfaithfulness put at ease. "Say, Hugo, did your old man encourage you along the path of the arts, or was that just personal preference?"

"Honestly?" Hugo sniggers, glancing devilishly over the screen of his laptop. "He almost sort of forced me. I was no good at writing, and music instruments and me…"

Bay shudders and clears his throat awkwardly.

"Oh, thanks, man." Hugo swats at Bay's head. "I'm not that bad."

Bay looks at the ground and clears his throat, eyebrows arched skeptically.

"Fine, maybe I was." Hugo playfully tousles Bay's hair, something he's probably only ever able to do when astride Scruffy. "But he got me into art, with a bit of effort. I admit, I'm glad you did, Bryon. Haven't been able to put a pencil down since."

Audiat squeals softly. "I've seen some of your work, you know, on that Rumbler site. You're very good at it – especially your expressions. Expressions are my worst field, so, ha, it's kind of amazing, seeing that you've gotten so, so amazing at them."

"Me?" Bryon massages Audiat's shoulder, shrugging flippantly. "Couldn't draw a stick man with a ruler. But I've got an appreciation for art, and that's what I've been telling him. He didn't believe me when I said he was excellent. Never has."

"That is not true," Hugo scoffs. "You have no appreciation for art. You think fucking Picasso is a genius."

"This is what I'm talking about," Bryon says, sighing and shaking his head, looking smug to finally have someone to back him up in his argument.

"No, I'm with him on this one." Audiat glances up at him, seeming confused, and as if she's trying to keep from bursting into laughter. "You think Picasso is a genius?"

"And _Van Gogh_," Hugo adds, his face one of disgust.

"Really?" Audiat snickers quietly, hiding her face from him. "Bryon, you're adorable."

He lifts his hands into the air, his face slightly confused, slightly pissed. "Picasso and Van Gogh are both revolutionary painters of this era that completely changed the way people thought of art. You two are just crazy nutballs that need to go to a museum."

"Hear that?" I nudge Emilio and grin. "Our first uncomfortable Young family outing! How fun!"

"Oh, speaking of family." Audiat beams at Bay, the corners of her eyes crinkling adorably. "I consider you my son-in-law now, even though you haven't proposed yet. You're mine and I love you. There's no escape, my little chick. You, too, Emilio. Don't even try to protest."

Over her head, Bryon mouths an urgent agreement, motioning for them both to just go with it.

"And you, Penryn." Her happy-go-lucky smile turns upon me, and only then do I see the intensity in her eyes. "I could pretend that I respect your rights as a full-grown woman, but let's cut to the chase: you're also my little chicklet. I'm not going to let anything happen to you, either."

"Audiat," Bryon sighs, elbowing her with a roll of his eyes.

"What?" She shakes a finger at me scoldingly. "You're a smart girl and you probably know the drill. Don't do drugs. Don't have sex. Don't drink. I will find you and I will show you just how terrifying a mother can be."

Emilio clears his throat loudly, catching Audiat's attention. His eyes scream a hasty retreat from the subject of mothers – and, though maybe he tries to hide it from me, he shakes his head.

"Looking forward to it." I smile tensely at Audiat, pretending to ignore her newfound curiosity. "Really, I am."

"You're too kind to me, Mrs. Young," Bay flatters genteelly, bowing his head respectfully and bringing the attention off me. "I truly do not deserve your gracious kindness."

Audiat bounces once on the balls of her feet. "You know, no one's actually ever called me 'Mrs. Young' before. Thank you, Bay, I love you."

"Well, I guess this is our botched sort of family, then," Bryon chuckles. He rubs at Audiat's arm, his eyes warm with affection as he glances down at her, then out at his family.

It looks to me as if he's still fighting tears – and why shouldn't he? After all these years, he's got a missing piece back. After all these years of people he loved dying on him, left and right, one's finally come back. And she's immortal, too, so she'll never die on him. She'll always return.

And not only that. He's got a family now. A closed, happy family. Slightly dysfunctional and probably doomed with a future of arguments and feuds, but that's to be expected. Even with Paige missing, it does sort of feel like a family, all of us.

I smile around at everyone, a cheesy, warm glow enveloping my heart. Emilio's lips are curled back in a half-smile, and Bay obviously fights a grin of his own. Bryon's gentle, steady gaze is a perfect balm after Audiat's hyperly excited gaze of sugary adoration. Even the sarcastic little shit that's Hugo seems to be enjoying the moment, grinning as he livestreams.

I'm smiling too, I realize. I'm smiling like idiots. We're all smiling like idiots. We're a family full of idiots.

"Okay, so, lovebirds, want to say something to close off the livestream?" Hugo grins sharkishly. "Maybe something cute, or a kiss from the camera?"

Bryon smiles, his eyes aglow with – as cheesy as it sounds – adoration. "A kiss sounds good to me, Ah-ch'at. And you?"

She steps on the very tips of her toes and frames his face with her pale little hands, running one thumb over his lips while the other awkwardly sort of dances at his chin. But before a word of endearment can be said, before a kiss can be exchanged, before their reunion can be settled, a series of shadows sweeps into the valley.

It's almost like watching those crappy YouTube videos of the Air Force display when you've got extra time in History class. They're crisp, precise. Unlike other flocks I've seen, where they flap individually and soar at separate heights, they move as one, almost eerily so. An awful trickle of dread slowly begins to flow into my stomach.

"Angels," Bryon murmurs, lifting his head, gently freeing himself from Audiat. His eyes rove intelligently over their crisp, clean ranks. "Good Lord, those are Michael's finest. Don't we have an archangel planted to tell us when things like this are going to happen? Two, actually?"

"I heard something about this," Audiat whispers, stepping away from Bryon, watching them go without his massive body to hinder her vision. "Something about – oh, Jesus, we've got to evacuate this place."

"Hear that?" cries someone. "They're going to come for us!"

"I thought we were safe!" wails a man that looks like he's been sneaking food. Frightened by the sudden turn in conversation, I reach out and grab Emilio's arm, clutching it tightly.

"She's already broken through!" shouts another. "She's their leader!"

Bryon roars like a monster. He charges forward, grabbing Audiat by the waist and throwing her behind him, forming a barrier with his own body. His bellow quiets the frightened human voices, and, for a moment, only silence sings.

My uncle's chest heaves. People stare, stunned, at the monster protecting the maiden.

Then the silent moment ends with the piercing shout of a bullet being spat from the barrel of a gun.

Scruffy yelps in terror, bolting off into the distance, Hugo only just managing to roll off in time. Humans cry out and rush for cover, many hitting the deck. It's done redundantly – I, with my gaze locked upon my aunt and uncle, see who the bullet hits. Bryon jerks his head back in agony, anguish burning in his bronze eyes as he takes the brunt of the blow for Audiat. A fiery exhale leads to pants and wheezes. He wraps his arms around his abdomen, shuttering his eyes and clearing his throat.

As the tension leaves the moment, I realize I'm squeezing Emilio's arm to death – he seems to notice in the same moment that I do. His amused smile makes me feel slightly unease. Then again, I'm not used to supermen that can get up and walk around after taking a bullet to the gut.

"Well, that wasn't very nice," Audiat sighs, unfolding herself from the ground. She stretches out a wing briskly, as if it'd gotten shoved into a position of discomfort during his haste to protect her. "Thank you, darling, but you know I could've taken the bullet. Now, do you want me to dig hand into your bloody flesh, just like old times?"

I relax, the air leaving my lungs in a burning exhale – I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath, either. My sense of security returns in a warm flourish.

Bryon smiles brittly, rising slowly to his feet. His eyes are somewhat dry of emotion, perhaps an after-effect of the pain he'd experienced. "If you think that'd help, sure thing."

"I captured that," Hugo chuckles, dusting his laptop off after diving off of his wolf's back. "Still filming, actually. You bastards got any last words?"

"Shut that off, Hugo," Bryon orders darkly, rolling his eyes slowly. Hugo sticks out his tongue and continues to film it, evidently searching for the perfect ending words.

"Wonder who shot that," Emilio boredly sighs. "Bastard should know ordinary bullets won't hurt you."

And to this, Bryon remains quiet. His eyes trail the horizon, finding the bloody orange sun and staring at it without comment. The beautiful reflection of the orange on the bronze is a sight I doubt I'll ever forget – it makes him seem so fiery, so alive.

Evidently, some aren't as convinced with his brilliant display of life.

"Bryon, that was an ordinary bullet, wasn't it?" Bay inquires, seeming slightly frightened to know the answer. His eyes are wide, his wings constantly caught in either furling or unfurling. "It was, right? Ordinary?"

Bryon smiles his true, Bryon-smile, but that's not the reason I begin to think something else is wrong. No, my stomach plummets because that seems to be sad, too – not concerned, not warm and loving, not that steady, secure source of comfort I know it to be. He looks slightly sad. Almost like a man going off to fight in a doomed war, knowing that he won't come back.

"Answer him," Audiat orders, walking back to Bryon's side. Gently, she unbuttons his shirt to expose the bloody wound in his abdomen – again, it doesn't look good, but I've seen him go through worse. Thinking along the same lines, Audiat says quickly, "See, that's got to hurt, but it can't be that bad, can it? I mean, that right there is the equivalent of a period cramp. You can deal with that, can't you?"

Bryon chuckles softly. "Oh, Audiat –" He takes half a step forward, as if to caress her face, or perhaps to finally deliver their long-awaited kiss.

But his meager half-step falters. He sends one of his hands flailing to catch his balance. At the last moment before he hits the ground, he stabs downwards with his staff, propping himself upright with the length of wood. Blood waterfalls down his stomach with each panted breath, dripping down from his stomach in long, spindly stalagmites.

Horror grips my heart with an icy fist as he struggles to keep himself standing. His knees buckle beneath him, but he keeps trying to force his weight on them. The only thing keeping him upright is that loyal staff of his.

Emilio begins to surge forward, but my uncle flails out a hand to keep him from coming. Prideful tenacity gleams in his bronze eyes.

Growling beneath his breath, Bryon grasps the staff in both hands. His face contorts in a silent snarl of determination. I watch, frozen in fright, as he pulls himself up, relying only on the help of the staff and his will of iron. He pops one knee into place, and, though it quivers violently beneath his weight, it seems to hold. Bryon puffs out a breath in relief, leaning his forehead against one of his hands.

Then his staff snaps in two beneath him.

The Nephilim King falls to the ground, his blood soaking the soil.

* * *

Raffe braces himself for a blow from Lucius – he clutches his sword tightly, his head whipping about, prepared for anything the Prince of Hell may throw. Everyone around him does the same. As their impatience for the blow to just hit already grows stronger, they clump together, each equipping a war face.

They wait in vain.

A small cry of alarm is passed around as the demon appears in the middle of the room. He's not attacking. Not even moving, just staring towards the window, towards the setting sun. Raffe doesn't like it. He doesn't like the demons stillness. And his expression –

Raffe represses the urge to shiver.

It's full of emotion. Of heartbroken emotion.

"No," Lucius whispers, shaking his head slower than the tides move over the Earth's face. "That can't be right."

Michael's sword swings through the air.

Raffe winces at the clang that echoes through the room as the feet of invulnerable metal slams against the demon's skull. Despite any advantage of Lucius's, he can't stand against such a pugnacious attack. Unconscious, he falls to the ground, landing in a lifeless heap.

"Do with him what you please, Lucifer," Michael says indifferently, sheathing his sword. "I advise snapping his neck, here and now, but it's up to you."

"Michael, what –"

The archangel throws out a hand towards Raffe, cutting him off. "Gather your strength, Raphael. Arm yourself, and get out your best suit of armor. We shall take the necessary time to prepare ourselves, we shall feed my men and caffeinate them, and we shall exterminate the human camp. Ariel, dare you to protest, you'll meet the same fate as this pathetic demon."

Uriel steps forward. "Now, wait just a minute now –"

"We are waiting." Michael glares down the other archangel. "But then we are striking. Stay here like a sniveling coward with your tail between your legs if your stomach is too weak, Uriel, and let your soldiers triumph without you. I fail to see how it's any different from any other of our battles. But as for us, we shall march on and eliminate the pests beneath our noses. After that…"

Michael smiles, his face silhouetted by the sun as it slips from shades of yellow to orange.

"The possibilities are endless."

* * *

**History is repeating itself.**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	65. Chapter Sixty-Four

**Chapter Sixty Four**

Hugo and Emilio are the first to reach Bryon's side. It's Hugo that flips Bryon over, and Emilio that presses his hands against the wound. They both shout at each other, Hugo in some language that sounds similar to Arabic, and Emilio in guttural Spanish. Neither seems to understand the other's language, but they communicate just fine through exasperated gestures.

Bay appears by my side, his hand closing around my upper arm. "Penryn, this is going to get nasty very, very quickly. If you want to leave, now is the time."

"No…" I shove him off of me, crashing to my knees beside Bryon.

"Bay!" Hugo looks up from Bryon, his pupils fearful pinpoints, his face one of utter panic. "Crowd control! Now! And get Scruffy out of here!"

"Okay, Hugo."

"Pillow his head and get me something to stem the bleeding," Emilio orders. His voice is cold and without a fragment of emotion. "Hugo, give him air. Not too many people around his face. Don't hang over him. Let him breathe!"

"I'm little enough." Audiat appears by my side, pillowing his head on her lap. "Squeeze my hand, Bryon, if anything hurts."

"Oh, all of you, stop your fussing." He sighs, cupping his hand over Audiat's and bring hers to his face. "Give me some time to say my final goodbyes, please. I don't want to have to shout over you."

"You're not dying!" Emilio shouts irately at him. Anger claws at the ice in his voice, the combination almost creating notes of desperation. "We can figure out a way to get this done! Don't you dare give up!"

"Audiat, do you remember how, when you held me in your arms, and you felt like I was dying, I told you I wasn't?" He shrugs weakly. "I am now. I can feel it. The bullet's already mostly dissolved, and the poison's already entered my bloodstream. I'm done for."

"I will slap you," Hugo threatens seriously.

"I'm going to try and die on an inhale," my uncle sighs glumly, looking up at the sky – despite his words and the lighthearted tone he says them in, there is something there that's just beginning to build, like a calm before the storm. "Everyone always seems to die as they breathe out. I'm going to be different. Watch me. If you feel me starting to slip off, Hugo, and I exhale, you have permission to slap me."

"I will slap you, too," I say quietly, wishing my voice didn't quaver as much. I lean forward and grab his hand – his calluses are rough, his hands knotted after years of work, but they're his calluses, calluses I've grown to love. Emotions well in my eyes, and I clutch his hand close to my chest, strangling the life out of it, blocking his insensitive words from my mind.

"Oh, Penryn." He feebly kicks out at Emilio, nudging the boy backwards, away from his wound, but his eyes remain trained on mine, filled with emotions I fear I'll never quite understand. "There's so much I still have to tell you. This weight that's going to fall on your shoulders… oh, God."

He pants for air, shaking his head against Audiat's lap, panicked eyes combing aimlessly through the stars, a shocked tear tracing down his cheek.

"I don't want to die. _I don't want to_. Please, _please_, God, no…"

Each breath of his is a shuddering gasp, his eyes, always so calm, collected, and warm, so utterly beautiful, dart around wildly without control or care. He returns the grip on my hand, and it feels like he's going to break my bones. And everyone is lost for words.

"Oh, Penryn." His face screws up, as if he's trying to contain sobs. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. You're going to have so much stress on you now. And I –" His voice cracks, and he closes his eyes, forcing another tear down his cheek. "I won't be there for you, after all."

Again, there is silence – the awful, terrible sort of silence. I don't understand what my heart is doing in my chest – whether it's beating too fast for me to tell or whether it's stopped altogether. Either would make sense. I don't know if I'm crying or if I've got my own little cloud drizzling my cheeks in raindrops. I don't know if the world's started pitching and bobbing or if a dizzy spell has slammed me in the gut.

Ever so softly, Emilio takes Bryon's hand from me. "I will watch after her, sir. I will… I won't let you down."

"Poor boy." Bryon attempts a smile, his teeth gritted with the pain of it. "Please, do. Look after my family, Emilio. And know that you're a part of it. Understand?"

Bryon's shot at a stern glare is more or less pathetic, considering his feeble state.

"With all due respect, sir…" I've never seen so much expression in Emilio, ever, as he struggles for words. "I've always considered you a part of my family, even if I was never part of yours." He lifts his hand in front of his face, staring despondently at the fingers still soaked with Bryon's blood. "Te amo." Curling his hand into a fist, Emilio whispers, "…Tu eres mi luz en la oscuridad."

"Emilio, te amo mucho." His smile has a faint trace of his old self in there somewhere. "Eres mi hijo, y te amo para siempre jamás."

Emilio rubs a thumb across Bryon's hand, like a parting gift, staring down at their entwined hands. "Voy a soñar contigo. Nunca me olvidaré de ti."

He releases Bryon's hand almost sort of reluctantly – and I hate to see it happen, I hate seeing Bryon's hand lying on the ground, groping at the grass. They clench with a sudden burst of pain as a grimace claims his face, and then go limp again against the ground, quivering wildly.

Wordlessly, I lace our fingers together again. He attempts to give me a comforting squeeze, but the frail try at comfort provides none.

"Dear Lord, this hurts," Bryon gasps, chest rising and falling. "Are painless deaths a thing of the past? Can we bring those back?" A hysterical peal of laughter leaves his lips, and he thrusts his head back, peering up at Audiat. "Oh, my dear, don't cry over me. Save your tears. You're going to need them."

"Don't you tell me what to do." She runs her hands through his hair, petting it out of his face, staring down into his eyes. "I'm going to fucking cry. And you're not dying. You're not. I won't let you, alright?"

He croons softly, closing his eyes, tears streaking down his face. "Oh, my Audiat. My little" – his breath shudders – "my little angel. Please, please don't… don't take this poorly. I don't want to… oh, God, I'm selfish, but I don't want you to be mad at me as I slip away."

"Dude," Hugo chokes, "no one on the face of the planet would ever call you selfish."

"It seems I'm not going to go out with the admiration of my people." Bryon inhales painfully. "Oh, dear Lord, after all I've done, they're going to hate me. All I ever wanted was… was…" A sob rips out of his chest, seeming to surprise even him. "They're going to _hate_ me, Audiat. I won't have the chance to explain, to make anything right. I'm going to die with the world _hating_ me."

My heart shatters into a thousand pieces as Bryon breaks down. He weeps uncontrollably and curls up on himself. Softly, Audiat brushes his hair back and shushes him, whispering words of comfort to her distraught husband, growing more and more panicked with each failed soothing word. No matter how much he tries to hide himself from me, to conceal the broken man he's become, I can't stop staring down at my uncle. His eyes grow red and puffy, his nose runs slightly, and tears course down his face.

Through a veil of silent tears, Audiat leans down, pressing a kiss to his temple. From her pocket, she draws an old, battered beanie – it's back in color and covered with lint. The only thing that separates it from any other beanies is the plush flower sewn onto the front, made to hang down in front of the wearer's eyes. However, the stitching making up the flower's smile has begun to unravel, giving it a grimace of pain instead of a cheerful grin.

With gentleness only found in the hands of an angel, Audiat eases the beanie onto my uncle's head, kissing him comfortingly.

"Penryn." Bay's hand lands on my shoulder, jarring me violently back to reality. "Are you absolutely certain you're ready for this?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Baelan." Hugo looks up at him, his grief turning to anger in the blink of an eye. "Leave us the fuck alone. I told you to take care of the crowds. He doesn't want people to see him like this. Go do your fucking job."

"O-okay, Hugo." His face confused like a scolded puppy's, Bay retreats, shooing people off but always glancing back to Hugo, as if hoping he'll be called back by the boy's side.

"Don't be so harsh to him," Bryon croaks. "He's trying to help."

"I fucking gave him a way to help." Hugo shakes his head slowly. "Oh, shit, man, please don't have your last words to me be a lecture. I'm still having troubles processing this, and I don't want to relive a shitty speech about loving neighbors when I think of you."

Bryon laughs. With his ugly crying face still intact and his chest still bobbing with hiccups, he frees his hand from my grasp and cups Hugo's cheek. "Oh, my little boy. You've changed so much, and yet…" The corners of his eyes crinkle. "You're still almost exactly the same. Do you know that you got pissed at angels in general because their wings were so boring? You just wanted an angel with dragonfly wings. You were _so angry_ with the lack of angel originality. Makes sense that you'd fall in love with a Fallen angel."

"You know, baby stories aren't much better," Hugo sighs, grinning. "And I prefer to think of him as a bat-man when compared to bird-brains."

"The exact same boy," Bryon muses, rubbing at Hugo's chin, as if caressing a cat. "My Hugo, my little Hugo. You know, when I envisioned a son that I wanted, I thought of your everyday sort of boy – a kid to pass a ball with, someone to do _boy things_ with. I didn't really get that."

"No, I can safely say you didn't," Hugo agrees with forced cheer.

"I couldn't be gladder for it." Bryon sadly hums a laugh. "I think I've taught you about life – I hope, at least – but you've taught me more than I ever could. You showed me just how overrated normal is, and my God, you're right. There's nothing normal about you. Not one little thing. But it makes you so – so _you_. I love that, Hugo. And no matter how much criticism you get, I want you to never, ever be normal." He cracks a smile. "Be normal and I will haunt you. Don't doubt me."

"Underestimating Nephilim royalty is something I'm not going to try," Hugo says with a dry smile.

Bryon's gaze again shifts to me. "Then don't underestimate _her_. Penryn, I'm so sorry for this. I'm… I'm abandoning you. Penryn" – he shakes suddenly, stiffening and grimacing, gasping for air, before continuing with a weaker voice – "you've – you've got to take care of your mother and sister now. Protect them. From Ogden." He gasps, and I watch with horror as his face pales and his lips turn grey. "You're all on your own now. The last Young blood. I'm so, so sorry."

"Don't be." I cuff his chin gently, forcing myself to use past tense. "I'm glad I knew you, Bryon. I hope one day I can be as good a guy as you." With difficulty, I swallow, watching the life slip from my uncle, watching it pump from him in the blood that waters the ground. I've seen people die, but never like this. I've never watched death slowly claim a person, climbing upon them limb by limb. "Come to think of it, you're not just a good man. You're a _great_ man. And I don't care what anyone else thinks."

"I love you, Penryn." His smile is so gentle it almost allows me to ignore the wild bucking of his chest as he coughs, and the fresh tears of anguish slipping down his face at the pain it invokes. "And you, Hugo, my little boy, my little son. And… oh, my Audiat."

The little angel strokes at his cheek, tracing the shape of his jaw, her tears leaving speckles throughout his stubbly beard. "Please don't die," she pleads softly. "You're my big dragon. You've finally come to steal me away from the knights in all their armor. Please, please. Just don't die."

"I don't want to." Another sob builds in his chest. "I don't want to leave you here. I – I want to stay here, by your side. Please, stay by mine. Don't let me die here without you. Don't let me die alone."

"Bryon…" She leans down and kisses him on the forehead. "Bryon, it's okay. It's going to be okay. Look, you're going to _heaven_. Everything will be good there." Sighing, Audiat rakes her hands through his hair. "I'm going to be as good as I can and pray that I'll meet you there one day."

He regards her with a fierce determination. "Listen to me. You do whatever it takes to be happy. If that means being with another man, _so be it_. Listen. You're not going to damn your social life because of me, and I know you will. If some man makes you happy, really happy, don't you even stutter. I support it. I want you to know that. Alright?"

"Okay, Bryon." She wipes his forehead worriedly. "You need to relax, calm down, this instant, okay? You don't have energy to waste."

He nods, his ferocity fading into weariness. "I've got no energy to waste. Got it." Sudden fear sweeps over him, the fear of death claiming him more swiftly than I can bear. "What if – what if I'm wrong, Ah-ch'at?"

"I don't understand, Bree-aw'." Tenderly, she cups his jaw, focusing his gaze on her. "What if you're wrong about what?"

"About heaven?" His eyes grow misty. "About… about my God? What if he truly doesn't care? What if heaven's a lie?" A tremor again rocks through his body, and he laughs bitterly. "We always see ourselves being brave as we die, don't we? I certainly did. And here I lie in a puddle of my blood, afraid of death like a snot-nosed coward. Funny, how the tides can turn."

"There's nothing funny about it," Hugo says gravely. "And… look, don't tell anybody, because then my atheist street cred is going to suffer, but we live in a world with fucking angels and celestial mutts. I'm pretty damn sure there's a heaven. I'm also pretty damn sure you're getting in."

His eyes are bereft of satisfaction, but he smiles all the same. "Thank you, my boy –" With a bugle of pain, he throws his head back. "No, no, no… not yet…"

"Bryon? I throw a hand out, resting it at his upper arm. "What's wrong?"

"I don't want to leave!" Desperation claws in his voice as it garbles and thickens. His body rocks and shivers, and his breath grows increasingly shallow. "No, no, no. Please, please, good God. I – I –"

My heart hammers in my chest as he speaks wordlessly, his lips moving with only a breathy exhale. His eyes grow distant, focusing on the sky above. It _is_ a beautiful sight, with a deep, dusky blue painting the sky and only the faintest ring of gold encircling the horizon, with not a star yet to be seen, nor the moon to yet appear.

"Oh, no." Audiat leans down over him, her tears falling on his face. "No, _focus_. Focus on _me_, Bryon. _Look_ at me."

"Just hold on, man," Hugo urges, following Bryon's gaze to the sky. "Stay strong until the moon comes up, alright? Because of the wolf thing. If you survive just a bit longer, man, you'll be reborn like Scruffy or Ivan or whoever the fuck he is. This is your best shot."

"He's not going to make it," I murmur, unwilling to get my hopes up, unwilling to have them crushed.

"Don't say that!" Audiat whispers, clutching at his hand with newfound determination. "Come on, Bryon, hold on, please. I don't want to say goodbye forever."

His smile is frail, more a twitch of the lips. Eyes once so beautiful, so deep, looking like pools of molten bronze upon his face and flashing in the light like mirrors, now barely gleam at all – it's like seeing a penny dull with age, worn down by time, slowly losing all that made it so brilliant in the first place. His handsome face is ashen and wan, and each of his breaths sound wet and unsteady, like a man already dead panting for life.

"It seems…" He gulps down a big gasp of air, his mouth open like a fish's. "It's time to say goodbye. Permanently." Slowly, he shuts his eyes, and a shadow from above falls onto his face. "I've had a long" – he rumbles out a quick cough – "long run. Life has been good to me. I'm not – I'm not ready to go, I don't want to." He laughs bitterly, the sound like window through a field of dead grass. "Good lord, I don't want to. And I'm scared. But…" A tear rolls down his cheek with a sense of finality about it. "It's time to say goodbye."

He doesn't open his eyes, but his lips lift in that warm, affectionate smile, that smile I've grown to love.

A moment of terrible nostalgia wrenches my heart from my chest.

He first gave me that grin as we met, and then to Paige, consoling her about the chunk she'd taken from his back. He comforted me in that little room in the Chaza when I first learned the roots of our family with that smile. Again, as Raffe and I endured our arguments and I eventually told him my heritage, his smile shone through. He laughed cheerfully and shot me that exceptional smile as we navigated the streets of Secrem Domu, selecting my special hat that'd gotten lost somewhere along the way. When he'd comforted me after my first terrifying encounter with White Wolf, that smile had been there. He beamed as he bode me farewell as we split paths to Lucius and the Seraphim and as we reunited. When he told me of my patron, he gave me his grin. When he left to fight the Horse and when he returned, that smile was spread over his lips.

Just a day ago as we sat together in his apartment at that table, exchanging our thoughts and relieving our tortured souls if only for moments before they piled up with worries again, I basked in his smile.

And now this sickly, grey-lipped grimace.

"Please don't do this." Hugo sobs once, but no tears run down his cheeks. "You can't. I won't let you."

My uncle's smile crumples slightly, but whether it's with pain or a response to what Hugo's said, I can't tell. Something seems to change – he relaxes every muscle in his body, exhaling slowly. It dawns upon me that Bryon's stopped fighting. The rest comes very quickly now. He doesn't have much time, not much time at all.

"I love you, Bryon." I nearly choke trying to swallow, my eyes locked on his as they fade, growing distant and foggy. "I love you."

"We all do," Audiat whispers quietly. "We all love you. You're so very loved. Don't you ever forget it. You are so loved."

She says something else, too, but I'm not paying attention. I watch the rise and fall of his chest, waiting for something that I do not want, tears blurring my vision. It's tiny, the movement caused by his breathing, and it reminds me acutely of how Paige would sleep upon his chest and bob up and down like she was drifting with the ocean tides. He promised he'd die on an inhale. I'm only watching to be sure that he does, for some sort of closure, I suppose.

Audiat cradles his head and sings softly to him, her voice quavering so badly that I can only barely recognize that Spirit song he loves so much. Hugo strokes at his father's hair, his face one without emotion, without any sort of inflection. And I watch the rise and fall of his breathing. Waiting, all of us, yet dreading, all the same, dreading something none of us have quite come to terms with.

We're all so absorbed we hardly notice the shouts and cries and beckons to the shadow over our heads. I, for one, don't hear the sound of wings scooping the air and feet hitting the ground. I don't hear Emilio's exclamation of greeting, nor Bay's cry of warning.

Sariel's weary voice nearly jars me from my stupor. "The barrier is down, guys, we need to get moving. I don't know why, but the angels are sounding the drums of war."

Bryon's eyes peek open ever so slightly, and his breathing picks up in the smallest way possible.

Audiat lifts her head, staring up through a sea of tears to where he presumably stands. "Oh, God, Saw…"

"Eh?" The Watcher sounds oblivious to the entire scene, oblivious to our tears. "Oh, what's that? Did some poor bastard get shot?"

As a tear streaks down Bryon's cheek, his eyes open wide, those gorgeous lashes framing his dull bronze eyes. He stares blankly up at the sky. His lips twitch in what I suppose is a smile, and his hand jerks, as if he's envisioning himself waving to the golden angel.

"Dad," he croaks gratefully, another tear tracing down his cheek. "You're… back."

He exhales with a happy sigh, as if quietly celebrating the fact that his family has finally all gathered, his dull eyes waning closed.

I wait for him to inhale, to breathe in one last time and complete his dying promise.

* * *

**Translation of Bryon and Emilio's conversation: "I love you. …You are my light in the darkness." **

**"I love you very much, Emilio. You're my son, and I will love you forever."**

**"I'll dream of you. Never will I forget you."**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	66. Chapter Sixty-Five

**Chapter Sixty Five**

Sariel is undone. That's the only way I can make the scenes playing before my eyes make any sense. Under any other pretenses, they don't compute.

My eyes are locked on him as Emilio drags me to my feet, pulling me backwards. He wails and clutches Bryon to his chest, clawing through his son's hair, screaming at his little boy to come back, screaming apologies to the sky, begging, imploring the world to return his son. Their tears mix on my uncle's stiff cheeks.

"Penryn, let's go," Emilio growls in my ear, continuing to drag me back. "You don't need to see this – _fuck_." He bitterly launches into many more Spanish curses. "We need to move, now, Penryn. This instant."

His words don't quite register, not as my feet trip over something upon the ground – I wrestle myself from his grasp and lean down to inspect it. My hands tremble as if caught in an earthquake. The wooden splinter upon the ground, not even reaching a foot in length, brings a fresh wave of tears as I lift it to my face. Fingers tracing a knoll in the surface, I caress the fragment of my uncle's beloved staff.

"Penryn." Emilio's voice is softer – it barely punctures above Sariel's bellows as he roars at Audiat to get away from his son, blaming her just as he had Bryon for Thea, screaming at Hugo, at Baelan, even at me.

"Can – can I take this with me?" I look up at Emilio, swallowing nervously, illogically afraid that he'll come up with a reason for me not to. "Please? Just this?"

"Of course, Penryn." He squeezes my shoulder, his brown eyes locking our gazes together. "But we need to move, _now_. The angels couldn't have had worse timing, but I need to keep you safe."

"Angels?" I clutch the wooden splinter closer to my chest. "What?"

He nods gravely, pulling me to my feet and throwing his wing around me. Each of his strides is more hurried than the last, and that wing is the only thing keeping me stumbling along at the same pace. Only then do I notice the hell around us – the people screaming and diving for those damned angel barricades, men shouting orders, children fleeing like dogs without masters.

"I can't leave him," I say quietly. "We can't just leave him."

"And we're not yet," Emilio reassures. He settles me into the shadow of a building, furling his second wing around me to better block out the cold. "The angels are upon us. We're only waiting until things get nasty so that I can hopefully fly you away from here without much injury to you. Tell me if you get cold."

"What…" I peek through his feathers, another tear finding its way down my cheek as I watch Sariel sob and pet Bryon's hair from his face. He scratches at what would've been the special spot between his horns, only causing himself more grief upon realizing that his son will never react to his touch again. Audiat sits with another piece of his staff, holding it in one hand, rocking back and forth and whimpering like a dog, singing his favorite song from that horse movie to herself as tears pool over. Hugo seems to simply have ceased. No more tears track down his face, and he doesn't breathe a word. Bay gently cradles the boy against his side, not saying a thing, simply holding him and sharing his warmth with the one he loves most.

"What do we do now, Emilio?"

"…I'm not sure what you mean."

"What do we do…" I breathe in slowly, turning around to face him, searching desperately for an answer. "About everything?"

He opens his lips to respond in something undoubtedly deep and complex, but shuts them quickly as the first sound of gunfire thunders in my ears. Grimacing, he shakes his head pityingly, closing his eyes slowly. "Poor bastards. Those angels were Michael's finest, and armored with the best the world has to offer. They're protected against bullets, and not even –" He falters. "Not even the King's bullets could pierce their hide when they're actively avoiding it. Of course, they're heavy, and once they're down, it'll take a lot to get them in the air again. That's where I'm putting my money." He glances at me. "You know, in case you wanted to know."

"Tell me more," I insist, blocking out the sound of panicking cries as people realize their ammo isn't affecting them in the slightest. "Tell me all you can."

Comprehension flashes in his eyes. "I'm usually quite swift on my feet, so outrunning them on my own would be no problem. However, I've got you in my arms – the safest and most aerodynamic way to do that disables the usage of either of our weaponry, meaning that it'll be us fleeing, and that's it. We've got to wait until at least most of the angels are grounded, and then have a hasty rocket high into the air, no stopping for any heroics. Then I'll –"

"IT WAS YOU HUMAN BASTARDS!" Sariel roars, throwing Bryon's corpse down roughly – his head hits a rock with a cracking sound that makes me flinch. A chill runs down my spine. My uncle's blank bronze eyes gleam at me from across the yard, like a dead fish.

As the golden angel plunges deeper into insanity and runs off towards the heart of the camp, beyond my field vision, Hugo pushes his boyfriend aside and takes his grandfather's place, hushing Bryon and telling him to go to sleep. He cries silently as he whispers childish goodnight prayers to the man he knew as father, some in English, others not.

"I'm so sorry," Hugo chokes, cupping my uncle's cheek. "I'm so sorry."

The first screams of fear and agony echo through the camp. Every muscle in Emilio's body tenses. Hugo's head snaps up, his eyes going round with fear, focused on something beyond the building Emilio's pitched me behind.

"_Bay!_" the boy shrieks, clutching Bryon to his chest, as if hiding a child's eyes from tragedy. "_Bay!_ Bay, _please!_"

"Hugo." Baelan wraps him in his shadowy wings, hiding him from the angels. "We need to leave." Something makes a very big bang behind me. "Christ! We need to leave _now_, Hugo. Call Scruffy and we'll escape on him."

"No!" Hugo elbows Bay's wings away, clawing at his father's face in anguish. "No, no, protect him! Protect Bryon! Don't – don't let anyone get close! Don't let them hurt him!"

"Hugo." Gently, Bay tries to pin his boyfriend's arms by his side. "We need to leave him. He'd understand. You need to do this to survive. And he'd understand that."

"You SELFISH MOTHERFUCKER!" Hugo's face contorts with rage. "I told you to PROTECT HIM! How FUCKING DARE you try to BACK OUT, you MOTHERFUCKING COWARD."

Bay starts as if he'd been slapped. His eyes turn slowly to where I know the angels are wreaking havoc beyond this building's shielding walls. And, as he stares there, I watch an emotion I've never seen on an angel's face before: cowardice.

"Hugo." A tear rolls down Bay's cheek, and his voice cracks. The Fallen angel looks shamefully at his shaking hands. "I – I'm scared. Please, Hugo, I'm scared."

Hugo's words might as well be venomous. "You get out there or I will disown you. You promised me you'd protect me. _You motherfucking spineless weakling_. I can't believe it. This isn't the angel I fell in love with."

Bay blinks fearfully, his glassy black eyes reflecting the flames the angels spread. "Hugo –"

"Get out there or don't talk to me."

Bay is quiet for a long, long moment, staring down at the ground, his eyes filled with terror, his lower lip quivering and petrified tears coursing down his cheeks.

"…Okay, Hugo."

Without waiting for a response, he lifts his wings, those graceful black scythes, and takes off into the air. Graceful and silent as a nighttime gale, he rises, unsheathing his sword and soaring off into battle. Roars of bloodlust pierce the sky the moment Michael's finest catch sight of him.

"Oh, God," I whisper, listening to the sounds of metal on metal in the staccato beat of a swordfight. My heart drops as the sound of swords suddenly stops, replaced by the sound of a body hitting a rooftop.

"We're going," Emilio decides, spinning me about so that I'm buried in his chest. His arms wrap around my waist and hold me tight against him – before the flight has even begun, feeling those muscled arms constrict around my torso, around my broken ribs and bruised muscles, I realize that this is going to hurt like hell.

Even hell hurts less.

The G-forces tug around me and sear at my ribs. In order to avoid crying out, I sink my teeth into my lower lip and allow tears to flow silently, wrapping my arms around Emilio's neck. From over his shoulder, I receive glimpses of terror – angels lifting people into the air and dropping them, fiery plumes eating the barricades meant to protect, humans running over each other to escape the angels as they sweep through this town and demolish it.

I scream a bit in my throat and bury my face into Emilio's neck, willing him higher and higher with each flap of his wings. I want to escape. Honestly, I want to fly. Fly far, far away – and that's what I hope he's trying to do. Because I'm a stupid wingless Nephilim, I want him to fly my away instead.

All of my dreams freeze as a voice calls up, piercing through the screams of panic – how I focus on it, I don't know, and I don't really care. Emilio's wings miss a beat, causing us to sink a few feet in the air.

"_Emilio!_" cries his mother. "Come back!"

I rip myself away from him just enough to find her, standing on a rooftop. Ladle in hand, reaching up to the sky, she watches her son go. How she got up there, I don't know, and how long she has until she's noticed by an angel is anyone's guess. Heroics are in order, it seems, and Emilio's tailored plan is about to be scrapped for good old fashioned improvisation.

To my horror, he keeps flapping.

"_Mama!_" he wails in my ear, the unfiltered grief of me causing me to shiver.

Still, he flaps upwards, not glancing back to look at his mother, even as an angel descends upon her in full battle armor. I watch her swing her ladle around fiercely, watch a sword slice it in half, before Emilio rotates and hides her from me. Her shriek echoes through the sky, and, only a second later, I see the angel take to the sky again.

"No!" I slam my hand against his shoulder, writhing wildly in his arms. "We have to go back, Emilio, we can't just let her die!"

"She's already dead." His voice is a rough growl in my ear, ridden with emotion and guilt. I feel a tear land on my shoulder. "There's nothing we can do."

"What?" My throat grows dry. "No! We can save them, Emilio, we can –"

"_Dammit_, Penryn, you're going to attract attention if you keep on –"

A vague flash of motion occurs in the corner of my eye, a furious roar rattles the sky, impact slams against us both, my eyes black, and, next thing I know, I'm falling.

I shout Emilio's name, clawing upwards, blind and helpless. Air whips with my hair and billows beneath my shirt. With each foot I fall, the more desperate I become.

The arms that catch me can hardly be considered soft. A cry of pain escapes my lips as the bad section of my back slams against biceps, as the shock of impact rattles through my ribs. Nearly blacking out, I curl in on myself, breathing tightly, daring not even to glance at my savior in fear that they might not actually be a savior.

"Are you alright?" he growls, voice thick and gnarled when compared to what I'm used to. For half a second, my sealed eyes open, and I catch a glimpse of flashing golden pupils.

I moan in response, shivering wildly as the fever claims me.

"Get out of here," Sariel orders, leaving my stomach behind as he drops like a stone in the air. "Josiah's already dragging Audiat back to the aerie. Wait for Raphael to find you."

Without waiting for an answer, he dumps me on the ground at the edge of the camp. I retch, standing myself up on my hands and knees, and spit blood at the moss beneath me. The awful coppery taste fills my mouth, thankfully not tainted by that nauseating flavor – just blood. In the corner of my eyes, I watch Sariel disappear in a golden flash of his wings, his feathers reflecting the fervor of the fire.

The fire…

It leaps from roof to roof like a monster. I watch angels circling high in the air, angels not protected by armor that must've arrived later, after the battle-angels razed our town enough, dump oil and gasoline upon houses, upon people. My stomach churns at the reek of scorched flesh. The terrible screams of men and women burning alive fill the air.

My heart lifts ever so slightly when I notice one angel diving the others – he's different than the rest, like an air ballerina with wings like shadows. Bay must've gotten past the armored angels, because now he's helping up above, taking out his anger and frustration upon those pouring gasoline down on us. Angel after angel falls to the ground after being subjected to his fury. I grin like an idiot, that small touch of relief slapping me silly.

Sariel dances in between the plumes of fire. I don't see much of him – partially because I don't want to watch – but he doesn't seem to be aiming at anything in particular. Angel, human, building – he attacks them all.

And Emilio…

I spit up some more blood, dragging my eyes away from the Spaniard.

Emilio dances in the air with an enormous angel as black as pitch, the only splashes of color being his lithe white wings and the two blue eyes that burn brighter than the fire. His father. Fear claws apart my stomach and rips up any hope Bay's appearance had given me.

Emilio's anguished cry rings in my ears. Is it possible that Titaniel had recognized Ms. De La Flor? That he's erasing the evidence of anything in fear of his scandal being revealed? If so, his desperation for a hasty cleanup will probably make him extremely sloppy…

I watch Emilio narrowly dodge a strike from one sword, only to get whacked by the broad of the second.

Or it could make Titaniel a dozen times more deadly.

On shaking legs, I rise, leaning on a tree. I don't know how, but I've got to help Emilio. Each step shuddering, I stumble back towards the human camp, eyes locked on the vicious battle going on between father and son. Swallowing, I watch Titaniel block a blow from Emilio, then land one himself.

I consider throwing Bryon's staff and distract the angel, but it'd fall into the flame, never to be found again.

Watching helplessly, I look around, waiting for some saving grace to help me. People stream past, trying to escape the flames that cling to their clothes, and the fire burns hotter, lapping hotly at my cheeks.

Above me, Emilio cries out with agony, and the sound of a sword through flesh. Blood falling from the sky makes the fire sizzle. White feathers spiral downwards like rain. I gasp in horror, and half of Emilio's wing plunges into the heart of the fire, lost in the blaze.

The Spaniard struggles to fly, his crippled wing clawing uselessly at the air, each new flap sending more red raining down. Titaniel had severed the wing at the joint, leaving the motions of that limb awkward and stumped – like a person with nothing beyond the elbow of an arm.

Emilio roars in frustration, his new nub working furiously to keep him in the air.

Titaniel rises a few feet above him, wings arched like fish hooks above him. Mercilessly, he slams the toe of his boot into Emilio's chest, sending the Nephilim downwards and into the same flame his wing had disappeared into.

"NO!" I scream, marching back and forth before the wall of fire in frustration. "No, no, NO!"

Titaniel turns his blue eyes briefly to me, but he does nothing more than rising into the air, joining his comrades in their spar against Bay.

"Oh, thank God." I jump out of my skin as Raffe drops down beside me. "I thought I'd lost you."

"We have to help him, Raffe, we have to –"

"We can't, not right now." He looks me over, checking for injuries, probing along my arms for breaks. "He'll be fine."

"What?" I shrug him off, shocked. "No – no he's not! He can't fly!"

"I'm getting you out of here, Penryn," Raffe says firmly, his arms closing like steel bands around me, mindful not of my ribs or my cuts or any injuries – he clutches me roughly, as if he'll never let me go again, and buries his face in my hair. Under any other circumstances, I'd enjoy it.

"No, no, you don't understand, Raffe, he can't –"

"He can't fly, I know," he finishes for me. "He's half human, Penryn, and that means he can walk. Leave him. You uncle will take care of it."

Every muscle in my body goes rigid. "…No. No, he won't."

"Oh, please." Raffe scoffs in my ear, dragging me back, away from the fire, back to the line of the trees – his wings are hidden beneath a jacket, probably thrown on last-minute to disguise his angelic identity. "You're being ridiculously. That boy is Bryon's favorite out of all his warriors. There's no way he'd leave him there to die."

"I don't think he'd have much of a choice…"

"What?" Raffe shoots me a puzzled, condescending glance. "What are you talking about? Look, Sariel is even here. You need to calm down, Penryn."

My frustration comes out in a sudden outburst of anger. "Raffe, I am sick and hurt and absolutely fucking helpless while Emilio is suffering and my grandfather kills more people than Michael's angels are! Don't you dare tell me to calm down!"

He stares at me as if I've gone mad. "Penryn! It's okay, I'm here now."

I flare my nostrils at him.

Raking a hand through his hair, Raffe sighs. "We've lost this battle, alright? So just take a deep breath and cut your losses now while you can. Hey, hey, Penryn." He puts a hand on my face and guides my gaze to his, even as an angel rakes over the fiery rooftops, dragging a man along with him by the heel. "Focus on me. Have faith in me. Can you do that?"

Have faith in him.

I feel like crying again suddenly, but I nod, and let Raffe herd me towards the trees. He glances up and down, watching the skies like an overprotective watchdog, and guides me through the chaos just like Emilio had.

In that protective little warm nook, I dip my head against Raffe's chest, my shoulders shaking. People run and shout around us, and some idiots continue firing on the angels, only to be plucked from their lines and hurled into the inferno. Raffe shoves men aside, throwing out rough elbows, pushing deeper into the woods and under the protection of the canopies. As his muscles flex around me with each new blow he deals, I feel myself drooping, the shock sinking in.

"Bryon is dead."

"What?" He glances at me with a furrowed brow. "Penryn, I think you breathed in a bit too much smoke –"

"My uncle is dead, Raffe." Numbly, I look up at him, into those confused eyes. "We held him in our arms and watched the life go away. He died on an exhale. And he won't be saving Emilio or anyone else."

"Penryn…" Raffe hesitates, allowing me a second to acknowledge that he hadn't even really faltered. "Is it Theobella again? Don't worry, we can beat her. You probably just saw Bryon give himself a nip on the inside of the cheek. It fooled me once, remember? Back when he was Simon? He'd shut down to save us if he sensed Theobella."

"He was shot, Raffe. He didn't bite himself."

Again, he looks skeptical, but thankfully, he shuts up. "Why are you shivering? Are you cold? You feel… _too_ warm."

"Emilio said I had a fever." I huddle closer to his chest, recalling the man's fall from the sky. "I'll be fine."

"I'm taking you to the infirmary when we get back," he mutters darkly. "By the way, I'm politically against this strike. I in no way support it. It's not a very popular vote, just so you know."

"Well, it shouldn't be a vote at all." Bitterly, I pucker my lips, glaring down at the leafy ground. "Normal people don't like to kill other people."

"We're not exactly normal." Raffe plops down on a log, pulling me onto his lap. "Listen, we've just got to stay here until the flames die down. Then, I'm flying you back, alright? The she-aerie isn't safe for you when you're still hurt. We'll organize a flight back to some safe Nephilim base and –"

"The Nephilim want my head." I shrug weakly. "None of them believe in my ability to lead, and the only way that Ogden can officially inherit the throne is if everyone in the Young family capable of leading is dead. It'd be a death sentence."

"Penryn, you need to calm –"

There he is again. Telling me to calm down.

Cutting him off, I whip out the last memento I have of my uncle – that splinter of staff. The piece from the very top, where he'd rest his chin and where he'd slam discipliningly into those that were rowdy or disrespectful. The dark wood gives way to the pale coffee brown of the splintering end, the tip like a stake to spear a vampire. He should recognize it. It should be some sign to him that I'm not lying. After all, he was the one that sculpted the staff that served Bryon so loyally right up to his final hour.

"Bryon is dead," I growl, shoving it into his hand.

Gingerly, Raffe takes it in his hands, his breath jarring with recognition. For a while, he just stares, dumbstruck. Then, just as mine had, his fingers trace down the lines in the wood, tracing where he'd carved it from the tree, circling the knoll and following the sharp edges of the splintering end until the last point. A moment longer, he holds it, seeming bewildered by it.

"I suppose he'll want me to carve him a new one." Raffe shrugs. "His staff broke, Penryn. It's incredibly old, and it's honestly a bit strange this didn't happen before now. That doesn't mean he's dead."

"You're in denial," I sigh, leaning against his shoulder. "I'm not. He's dead. The sooner I accept… the easier it'll be to move on. This isn't the first time I've lost a father."

"And this isn't the first time I've thought someone I cared for had died, and, trust me, when you gave me a heart attack, it was far more convincing than a broken stick." He stares at me broodingly, his eyes dangerously reckless. "Penryn, no offense to you, but you've told me that your uncle was killed before and it scared me to death. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to go through that again unless I'm absolutely certain of it."

"Have it your way." Miserably, I take the piece of the staff back. "I can't convince you."

Raffe is silent for a second, perhaps mulling it all over. "…So, I've never baked cookies, or anything, but I'm willing to give it a go if you are when we get back."

I snort. "That'd be a sight to behold. Raphael, the Great Archangel, making cookies. The only thing better would be a pie. You could wake pies and make the dead."

He glances down at me, beyond puzzled. "Let's go with that, I guess."

Leaning against him, I close my eyes, listening intently as the sounds of the fire roar and the screams slowly die down, the clash of metal on metal becoming less and less frequent. Raffe wraps his arms around my waist, gripping me tighter against him, and presses his lips to my hair.

My shock gives into exhaustion – the echoing cacophony of death dulls after only a few seconds of being safely nestled to a warm, safe body. Every muscle in my body relaxes, and I almost reluctantly sink into a sensation of utmost security; though anyone else'd think I was mad, I think comfort in the arms of an archangel. Even I, with my tired mind, can process how strange it is.

A lump of cold, hard grief forms in my throat. It's not the sort of bump in the log that dislodges itself after a bit of crying. Rather, this is an irritating little ailment that doesn't mend itself with a fresh flow of tears or a warm cup of joe. It'd add an edge to my words if I try to speak, so I don't. I go slack in Raffe's arms and allow myself to almost slip off into sleep, leaning my head back on his shoulder.

"Penryn," Raffe whispers quietly. "Open your eyes."

I moan softly in my mouth, curling in closer to his heart in an effort to regain sleep.

"Penryn."

Peeved, I crack my eyes open. With a gasp, I sit up and stare out.

"I think someone called in the cavalry," Raffe says gravely, watching the glowing tide of blooming plants sweep down the mountainside, a graceful white beast floating above it.

"Fredrick," I whisper in awe.

Raffe sighs heavily. "I wish you'd explain yourself every now and then, because you go around ruining perfect moments like that for me."

Ignoring him, I watch White Wolf sweep over the valley. From the moon, he comes, as swift and silent as a midnight gale. I don't see his wings all that much, only when framed against the fluorescent garden below or the astoundingly bright constellations above. His body, however, is so purely white that it hurts my eyes, whiter than the moon or even snow.

The wind roars through the forest as he soars overhead, yanking at my hair. His lips at my ear, Raffe gasps, but he doesn't utter a word – the sight of White Wolf overhead, wings framed by a sky of sparkling diamonds, is too beautiful for words.

The moment White Wolf drifts out of view, his plants flood our clearing. My heart throbs with the beauty of it all as the trees grow glowing moss and as flowers blossom around our feet. Humming with appreciation, Raffe leans us back slightly so he can cup the petals of a golden flower, allowing its fluorescent pollen to sprinkle over his palms.

"It's beautiful," Raffe sighs. "I can see why one might enjoy living on the ground if it was like this every night."

My heart pangs. "For Bryon, it probably was."

Raffe falls silent – he's probably learned that the whole Bryon-topic is one he shouldn't approach with a ten-foot pole.

In the distance, the crackling, snapping rage of the inferno begins to die, the red tongues of flame that'd forked up to the night sky above even the trees dying with each flap of White Wolf's wings. As the trees crown themselves in luminescent flowers and fruits, the red flare of the fire dies down, and the beast sinks out of sight, like a creature returning to the night.

"The angels," Raffe whispers, his lips moving against my hair. "I can hear them. They're fleeing."

My fingers wrap over his hands, squeezing them gently. "Really?"

"Yes, Penryn." He laughs quietly, leaning against me, the puff of his breath tickling my ear. "That hell's over now. How about I get you somewhere warm to curl up, maybe someplace where I can enact your cookie-archangel fantasy, and then we can chow down on those delicious morsels and watch Mean Girls? I have the DVD back at the aerie."

"No…" I sigh with relief, clutching his hands. "No, not yet. We… we have to make sure everyone's okay first."

"Counterproposal." Raffe nuzzles through my hair and rests his lips at the nape of my neck. "What if we take a few minutes to clear our heads, then head back to the camp, and then I make you cookies?"

I resist the urge to swivel around and peck him on the cheek. "Sounds good to me, Raffe. Just… cuddle me, okay? And then never speak of it. Ever."

"My lips are sealed as long as I get some cuddles too. And, Penryn, don't worry about your uncle, or anyone else. They're stronger than they seem. Even that big teddy bear of a demon was getting some good blows in there. Keep a level head."

Hushedly, I laugh. "Speaking of teddy bears, you don't need to treat me like a kid, Raffe. I've gotten this far into the apocalypse."

"Even my best soldiers have come slinking into my quarters because of a nightmare, Penryn." Raffe's voice is stern. "You're no different. And this? It's going to give you bad dreams. So relax, shut up, and let me cuddle your stress away."

* * *

**Dearest guest: I had exams, too, so don't flip your shit.**

**Not having fun with these chapters. Was Bryon destined to die? Yes. Was Mama De La Flor destined to die? Yes. But do I want to kill them? No... well, a little bit, maybe, but mostly no.**

**Oh, and: do I want to kill who's coming up next chapter? DEFINITELY NOT.**

**POLL: Raffe's right to be skeptical about Bryon's end. After all, he just found out that the Nephilim King has been faking it for years. Any guesses on how he might react to his age-old enemy's demise?**

**Ciao, **

**~wolfluvermh**


	67. Chapter Sixty-Six

**Chapter Sixty Six**

_"Oh…" In the midst of a busy subway station, Bryon stops, gazing worriedly down at a little girl. "Hello… where's your family, huh?"_

_To my mortification, I realize he's talking to me. A teeny weeny five-year-old Penryn Young, standing in the center of the bustling crowds of some subway somewhere, holding a bright pink suitcase under her arm. I look up at him blankly for a few moments, and I can see the dilemma playing out in my little kid eyes – friend or foe? After all, he seems nice, but they drill the no-strangers rule into your head at that age. _

_Evidently, I decide that he's friendly. _

_My lips peel back eerily far. It's like I'm ripping my mouth open as far as it will go, baring my gums and fangs at him. The corners of my eyes don't crinkle – instead, I widen my eyes, too, looking up at him like a psychopathic dog baring its teeth. _

_Bryon laughs, sounding startled. "Well, hello to you to."_

_I continue to grin as if I'd never even heard what he'd said. _

_"Oh, my, you're going to keep doing that, aren't you?" Bryon chuckles to himself, warm affection causing his bronze eyes to blaze. "Where are your parents? You didn't get left behind, did you? It's dangerous to be alone."_

_Still, I grin in silence. _

_"Good talk." Lifting his gaze from me for a few seconds, Bryon scans the crowd for my family – his happy expression falters for a moment when he spots them. When it returns, it's seasoned by a touch of guilty reluctance. "Hey, sweetheart, your dad's right over there – can you see him?"_

_That invokes the first response from me: a stark, mechanical nod. _

_"Why don't you skedaddle, then?" One of his eyebrows arch condescendingly. "Your father will be a mess if he realizes he's lost you." After a moment, he realizes his tidings weren't met with acceptance. Rolling his eyes with amusement, Bryon bares his teeth back at me, copying my expression perfectly – he looks comically like a clown. _

_I collapse in a fit of giggles in the middle of the subway square, capturing my dad's attention, and subduing my uncle's affections. Glancing awkwardly towards my father, who still isn't aware of his brother's presence, Bryon begins to walk off, fading into the crowd. _

_He stiffens, and whips around rigidly, cloak snapping in his wake. _

_"Mom!" he nearly shouts, clapping hands on his parents shoulders and swinging them around violently as they emerge from a tunnel. "Dad! Hey! Look what I found!"_

_My father, kneeling by my side, raises his head. Terror gleams in his eyes, then a sort of thankfulness. Though little kid me wouldn't have been able to see a thing, I can – and I watch the quiet nostalgia in his eyes as he sees his brother at last, the first time in what must seem like centuries, still keeping his family safe. With a quiet word to me, Dad ushers me towards the arriving train, herding our family through the doors._

_Bryon continues to explain to them in great depth just exactly how the good old 90's advertisement caught his eye, detailing how genius it is to have a toothpaste commercial on the inside of a subway station. The hands firmly holding his parents into place tense as the train bings a final warning, and then slips off as the cars begin to move on the track, hissing on their way. _

_Confused, Sariel and Thea exchange a look as Bryon laughs with relief and runs his fingers through his hair. _

_"Uh, son?" Sariel grunts. _

_"Hmm?"_

_"I'm no idiot. What's up?"_

_Thea cocks her head to one side, eyes gleaming shrewdly. "Your brother was here, wasn't he? You were distracting us so he could get away."_

_"Never could lie to you, mother," Bryon says cheerfully, doing a happy twirl in the middle of the station. "I saw your granddaughter. Oh, good God in Heaven and all his choirs of angels, mother, you should've seen her. She's going to be beautiful one day."_

_"You saw her?" Sariel is so spooked he flexes his wings on the inside of his leather jacket, freaking out more than one commuter. "What was she like?"_

_"She looked like Thea, except she had her mother's eyes," Bryon sighs happily, taking off through the station. Chuckling to himself, he shouts over his shoulder to them, "I'm also certain she's going to grow up to become a serial killer! She'll fit right in!"_

As if my heart was not already breaking in my chest, I feel myself being yanked from my dream, only to be placed in another.

_"…Thank God for you, Bryon," I hear my father whisper as he shuts the door to the kitchen of our childhood home, closing it off from the family room hall. "Not that being… _different_ is a bad thing, but I didn't want my sweet girl to be picked on for snarling. She's already got a mother like…" _

_He trails off uncomfortably, meeting his brother's eyes with all the explanation necessary. _

_"Of course." Though slightly tainted with sorrow, Bryon's smile greets my Dad's awkwardness. "I'm here for you if you ever need it – or either of them." He hesitates. "…Tell me a bit about them, please? About…" He breathes in painfully. "About my nieces?"_

_"Oh, Bryon," Dad sighs despairingly. "I wish – I wish I could let you meet them." He swallows. "But you can't, alright? They won't be like I was growing up. I won't let them… be tainted and stuck-up because they're adored, like me. We've got a good life here, brother. Not the best, but good. I'm not going to teach them about angels and demons, or about the truth of you and me."_

_"And I understand completely." Bryon leans forward and squeezes his little brother's shoulder comfortingly. "There's no need to explain yourself to me. I want you to know that I am so, so proud of you for all that you've done. Who ever would've thought that little Wolf Pup becoming a man, then a father?" _

_"Not me, certainly," my dad laughs. "Pleasant surprise, I suppose." He studies my uncle pensively, then sighs, staring off into space. "…Penryn is my oldest daughter. She's headstrong and independent. Takes strongly after our mother. Never watches female programming, and only uses her Barbies as slaves."_

_"Oh, really?" Bryon grins. "That does sound a lot like Mom. You'd better watch out, or else she's going to fall for an angel by accident, or an incognito Nephilim."_

_"Trust me." Dad cracks a wry smile. "I'm prepared to whack off any guys with a stick once they realize she doesn't have cooties. If I need your help with anything, any problems she gets herself into, that stubborn girl, I'll let you know. If I can't scare them, you will."_

_"Hmm." Bryon's lips quirk. "Here I was, under the assumption that you were going to be a lenient father. Go figure, I suppose."_

_"My daughter is not going to be one of those teenage whores," my father says darkly. "She's too smart for that, really, but you can never be too careful. I do plan on being a good, lenient father, though. They can make their own decisions. I'm not going to dictate them like that shithead of a –" He glances awkwardly towards Bryon. _

_My uncle chuckles. "You don't need to censor yourself in front of me, I'm well aware of your dislike of Sariel."_

_"Right." He tilts his head to one side. "I'm going to let them do what they want. Figure things out on their own. It builds independence, and, well, they can never have too much of that. You've got to figure out who you are for yourself. I want to help them do that. And," he adds firmly, "I'll support them, no matter what."_

_Bryon studies his brother silently for a few seconds. "It's one thing to allow your children to make their own decisions, and it's quite another to abandon them. Fine line, very fine. I only advise that you make sure that your parenting scheme involves actual parenting, punishments and groundings included. After all, with all their talk of wanting to be independent, children are always looking for help to assist them in walking on their path. They depend on you to chart that path out for them."_

_Speechless, Dad stares at his brother, shaking his head slowly. "You know, Bryon, there are times that I wish you'd been my father. That you could be the one fathering my daughters."_

_"Now, now," Bryon scolds lightheartedly. "You're a perfect father, and Sariel… is a simpleminded man."_

_Sighing, Dad shakes his head, crossing his arms and biting at his lips. "…I wish there was a way I could introduce them to you, Bryon, I really do. I see – I see how much this hurts you, despite that smile you pull. More than anything, I wish my girls could get to know the great man they have as an uncle."_

_"Oh, I doubt they'd see me that way," Bryon chuckles. "Penryn – she'd be old enough now to be suspicious of me, and where the oldest goes, the younger follows." He snorts, and playfully nudges Dad with his staff. "Most of the time, at least. They'd see me as a man that never bothered to visit them or write or anything. It's… it's heartbreaking, but I'd rather not know them at all than be hated."_

_"You don't know that," my father tries to coax. "Like I said, Paige is almost exactly like you. She's got your personality to a point. I'm sure Penryn will warm up to you eventually."_

_"Brother, if she's like our mother," Bryon chuckles, "she'll look for someone to blame. The only way she'll _not_ despise me is if I tell her that you kept me away. Then the hatred would be transferred to you, and I couldn't bear that. Therefore, I won't even enter the picture. You'll be her one and only daddy."_

_My father, lost in thought, chews on his knuckles. "Okay, yeah, you're probably right about that. Plus, I don't want them following any trail you might accidentally leave behind in their youths. But what if you come back later, when they're older? On Paige's eighteenth birthday, maybe?"_

_Bryon quirks an eyebrow. "What are you proposing?"_

_"Look, I know it seems like a long time from now," my father hastily explains, "but that way, they'll both be old enough to make their own decisions. You could claim to be a monk, explaining the flowing cloak and why you've never come to visit. Penryn will be mature enough to hate neither of us by then. And, who knows? Maybe one of them will dig deeper into your identity. They might even claw their way back to the Nephilim. Then you'd be able to show off your nieces to everyone else."_

_Bryon's eyes sparkle with hope, and a fear of getting shot down. "Do you really mean that? I mean… I really might get to meet them?"_

_My father leans forward, clapping his brother upon the shoulder. "There's no one I'd rather have them meet, Bryon. Just a few more long years, and then you'll see. We'll get these complications sorted out between us before then, I hope."_

_"Of course we will, you're my brother." Grinning like an idiot, Bryon leans his head back and closes his eyes. "God, thank you so much. You don't have to do this, you know. If you're perfectly happy without me, I can manage without them."_

_Dad snorts. "Don't be stupid. I've missed you more than my wings, and that is saying something. And I told you, I want you to teach my children, even if it is a little late for imprinting."_

_"Then I will teach them all I know." Bryon sniffs, shaking his head, still beaming. "Oh, mercy me, I'm such a sap – look, I'm crying with happiness. I don't understand how someone as tough as you can be related to someone like me. You realize this is going to be the longest few years of my life?"_

_"You are a sap," my dad chuckles. "Don't worry, Bryon, they're going to love you. You'll be a part of my family again, alright?"_

_"A part of your family…" Bryon smiles softly towards the wall, as if he's hearing things from the other side, and simply pauses. _

_I remember being a child when my father locked himself in the room, my mother muttering about reptiles from somewhere behind me. I'd been watching a movie on TV, brought home by my dad and his mysterious collegue that, until now, I'd never even thought of. Paige was curled up by my side, fast asleep, and I was enraptured by the movie. Spirit, I recall. I was watching Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron._

_Turning back to my father with a smile holding back tears, Bryon laughs quietly. "I can't wait to be their uncle. And… and I can't wait to brag about my nieces to everyone I meet. Annoy all my friends talking about them." The corners of his eyes crinkle as his laughter grows slightly louder. "Good Lord in heaven, I'm going to be that weird uncle, aren't I?"_

_"Don't you worry." My father pulls a jaded smile. "They'll love you, Bryon. It's hard not to."_

* * *

"Penryn."

A hand gently shakes me from my slumber. Mumbling softly, I start awake – the only thing that keeps me from falling off of Raffe's lap are his encircling arms, keeping me grounded. "We should head back to the camp," he murmurs in my ear, lips brushing against my skin. A tingle runs down my back. "The sun is rising."

"Oh." My uncle is dead, that's right. "Oh. Okay."

"Let's get moving." Raffe sighs, nudging at a flower that'd encircled the base of the log he'd chosen for us, watching as it disintegrates into ash. "Shame those are going away. They would've been comforting to those still mourning losses. Can you get on your feet by yourself, or do you need me to carry you?"

"I've got it." Rubbing at my eyes, I swing my legs down, standing up slowly. "Ugh. I don't… I…" Tears sting at my eyes. My uncle is dead. "I need Paige."

"She's safe, Penryn," Raffe says softly, wrapping wing and arm around me. "Come along now, we need to get back on the move. Let's find Hugo and then find a nice, cozy place to hole up for a while."

I notice he doesn't say anything about Bryon. Probably because my uncle is dead. "Okay, Raffe."

The trek through the forest isn't nearly as difficult as I'd remembered it, nor as long a walk. The midnight plants dissolve at the slightest touch of a feather or finger, forming almost a sort of path with their ashes. It's a wistful sight, seeing beautiful flowers shrivel in the sunlight, but… also, I can't help but see a bit of metaphorical value in the ashes swirling around our feet.

Some of the ashes, I notice, don't seem to be the same as the lightly-colored plant-flakes. Not long after I start seeing these specks of darker colors than the reek of burnt flesh fills the air. Raffe clears his throat, shaking his head slowly, but his stride doesn't falter.

I glance towards him. His face is a stony mask, impassive and unyielding – but there's something I can't quite understand about it, too. Something perhaps so tiny, such a small, small difference he isn't aware of it. However, when I look at Raffe's perfectly impassive face, I see only reluctance, only dread.

I don't understand it at all. What's done is done, and there's no use in being reluctant to see damage dealt. Raffe's made it quite clear that he's seen his fair share of wars, of battlegrounds. This scene is in no way unfamiliar to him.

Maybe he's just now realizing that my uncle is dead.

Maybe that's it.

A lump forms in my throat, causing my breath out to sound more like a choke. Raffe casts a piercing glare towards me, his eyes filled with vicious scrutiny. Swallowing down the lump, I stare at my feet, unwilling to meet that gaze I'll surely crumble beneath.

My uncle is dead. I don't have any choice but to move on. There… there's no time for me to grieve, no time for me to shed tears, no time for me to pay final respects. Audiat will be a mess. Paige will be a mess. Hugo will be a mess. Probably Raffe, too, for that matter. I can't afford to be weak. I can't… I can't let myself grieve.

My heart stutters painfully in my chest. Tears threaten, but they escape my eyes – I can't cry over Bryon. He's dead now. He's dead. _He's dead, he's dead. _Tears won't help a dead man, or any of my family… My living, breathing family…

"Penryn!"

From the middle of nowhere in the woods, a coppery flash bolts towards me. I barely have time to recognize him before he's upon me. Shrieking with joy, Hugo flings his wiry arms around me, wrenching me from Raffe embrace to rock me back and forth in his own hug.

"Oh, God, I thought I'd lost you, too." Hugo pets at my hair, murmuring things in different languages every now and then. "Thank God you're okay. Dear Lord, I have decided that I shall believe in you, because you have returned Penryn Young safely to me… Hail Mary full of fucking Grace…"

I bury my face into his scrawny shoulder, feeling the thin, scrappy muscles that come with being a thinker rather than a fighter stir with each of his movements. After a moment of Hugo's scent rolling around me, I relax in his arms. My walls do not fall and I do not weep, but I physically unclench the tension held in my body.

"How's Emilio?" I whisper, more afraid to hear the answer than not. "I mean, I saw him… I saw him fall."

Hugo is quiet for a moment, and, beneath my palms, I catch the nearly imperceptible shiver of horror. "…Not doing so good, Penryn. Last I heard, he's going to need me to fashion a makeshift amputation wing-thing. Also… an eye-patch." I hear him swallow. "He's… he's going to need an eye-patch."

I squeeze Hugo tightly against me, wishing I could strangle the life out of him without having to worry about Bay's rage. "…And his mother?"

"He said she's dead." Hugo sighs heavily. "I think he's in a state of shock, to be honest. His family is dropping like flies around him. He's the last one left, the last one out of all those he loved. …I'm not sure if he's going to be able to come back, Penryn. His sanity is taking some blows."

"No angel was meant to be grounded," Raffe agrees with a harrumph. "Even if he's half-angel, the idea of having to rely on a metal crutch to help him… be _free_ is constricting. Maddening. That said… if he's lost an eye… even if he gets that wing back, he'll never fly again." Raffe's voice grows quiet. "You can't detect depth without two eyes. Any attempt of his to fly would be a death sentence."

"Right, right, I forgot about that." Hugo recoils from our embrace slightly, propping me up against his side, allowing me the first glance at his haggard, sooty face. "If you lose an eye in service, you get the choice of living life as a burden or being slaughtered with your name forever remembered in glory up in the angelic bastard ranks, right?"

"I won't deny it. That's how it works in the armies of heaven."

"Well, it's not how it works here on the ground." Hugo rakes a hand through his hair, glancing nervously towards me. "I – I want to help him. We're…" His voice softens like melted butter. "We're his family now. We've got to help him."

"Right." My heart heavies. "More family. _Great_. Hugo, where's Bay?"

"I…" Hugo's breath hitches in his chest, and he saws anxious at his lower lip. "I have no idea, Penryn. Oh, God." A rattling breath exits his lungs. "Oh, God, I hope he's okay, I hope he's okay… Now I lay me, down to sleep, please be fucking okay…"

Raffe reaches forward and grabs the boy's shoulder, giving him a quick squeeze. "He'll be fine, don't you worry about it. Your boyfriend used to be one of those elite few, you know. Just because he's Fallen doesn't mean he lost all the tricks he picked up as an angel."

Sniffing, Hugo smiles brittly at Raffe, true gratitude shining in his eyes. "He's a warrior. A warrior is always fine." Curling around himself and blinking tears from his eyes, Hugo repeats that to himself, looking like he's trying to convince himself of the truth.

"Let's look for him," I suggest, wanting to help in some way. "How – how are the fires?"

Hugo rubs at his eyes, shaking his head. "I dunno, I'd be careful… And, y'know, if he's got the strength, he's probably down in Hell… I dunno…" Gnawing at his knuckles, he tries to shove a fist in his mouth. "I can't. I can't. Oh, God, Bay, please be okay. You… you can't leave me."

"He's not leaving you." Raffe raps Hugo across the forehead. "Look alive, monkey. If you keep moping about, we won't find him."

I find that a bit heart-warming, Raffe comforting the boy he's more or less hated for so long, but Hugo hardly seems fazed. He nods with dull, glassy eyes, his mind elsewhere, perhaps thinking back to his boyfriend's last few seconds together. For Hugo's sanity, I pray that Bay is alright – Bay is a warrior. He is always fine.

"I think – I think you should take a seat, Hugo." I swallow, numbly alarmed by the hollowness in my own voice. "We'll find Bay for you if he's still around. If not, he's nursing his wounds."

"And he'll be back before you know it." Raffe shoves Hugo forcefully down onto a log. Startled, Hugo lands on his ass, blinking up at us but not saying a word. "Take a seat." Raffe glowers at him, waving a finger like he's spouting a lecture. "Stay. There. Now, Penryn, on my back."

I glance up at him, confused. "…What?"

"Did I stutter?" He crouches in front of me, gesturing towards his back with a scowl. "Piggyback. Now."

Awkwardly, I clamber onto his back, trying to avoid his wings. My arms wrap around his neck, and my chin settles in the hollow of his collarbone. His heartbeat thuds against my throat. As he soars upwards and I lose my sense of balance, I can feel his wings shifting beneath me and his leather jacket. Perhaps I'm another covering for them, another shield, another way to disguise what would give him an instant crucifixion around here.

"Bye, guys," Hugo calls dully. "Fine my bae."

I wave halfheartedly. He attempts a smile in response, but it looks so much like a failed ruse that he lets it crumble.

Once we're out of earshot, I lean down and whisper in Raffe's ear, "How likely is it that Bay is still… still okay?"

Raffe opts not to answer my question.

"Okay." I sink in a little closer on myself. "That's what I thought, anyway."

"Stay strong, Penryn," Raffe sighs, nuzzling against my arms with his nose. "You're so strong. Just be strong for a little while longer…"

"I'll try," I whimper as the burnt-out remains of our camp come into vague view, the plumes of smoke having a grounding force. "Can – can you hear anything? Or see…?"

He nods slowly, his hair tickling the side of my head. "They're stripping the bodies of those that've lost their lives, and piling them up. I assume they're going to have a massive funeral pyre. Not everyone is… happy about it." Sighing, Raffe noses my arm again. "A lot aren't ready to say goodbye yet."

"I can understand." Swallowing with difficulty, I nestle closer against Raffe, cautious not to accidentally knee his wings in my shuffling. "Do we – do we have to walk around through the place, or can we just… just find him immediately? Use your angel senses?"

"Don't talk about my angel senses." Raffe hugs my legs tighter against him, and I can feel his displeasure with our entire situation. "If anyone finds out who I am, you're dead by association. But… I can't fly to scope him out. There's too much noise for me to hear him. Sight is virtually useless when there's this much ash in the air. I don't have a bloodhound nose."

"Sure you can't taste him?" I laugh dryly.

Raffe's nose nudges me for a third time. "Laugh for me again, Pooky Bear."

Hearing a domestic word like "love" escape Raffe's lips does invoke another peal of laughter, this of delighted shock. "Anything for you, angel," I croon.

"That's more like you." Raffe's quiet approval sends a chill down the back of my neck. "Hold onto that. No matter what you might see, alright?"

The lump returns to my throat as my mind inevitably flickers with images of what I might see – burnt corpses, people with black, empty eye-sockets, children staggering around with scarring burns covering half their bodies, old men crying in piles of ash that used to be their wives. Maybe, just maybe, there'll be one there with bronze eyes as dull as a dead fish's, his cloak burnt to a crisp, his body eaten away at by the flame.

My stomach plummets to the ground.

"Can we… approach from a different angle?" I request faintly.

"Sure thing." Raffe alters his course immediately. "Why? Is there something –"

He staggers mid-stride, head snapping in the direction of the little stretch of land before the shooting lanes, the little place where a small aggregation had watched a great man take his last breath. I don't feel him breathe for a fully thirty seconds. He stands there, frozen, staring without words.

Raffe's shoulders rock harder and harder. His breathing grows more and more shallow. Still, he does not move.

I bury my head in his neck, knowing precisely what he's seeing. They probably haven't even moved him. Haven't bothered to drag him away from the embers, pillow his head, whisper words to ease him to sleep. No prayers shall be muttered over his body to send him into the arms of a false God.

"Let's move," Raffe orders curtly, something essential missing from the inflections his voice. "Now. Now, now. Let's go."

"Raffe, it's –"

"I don't want to talk about it," he snaps, and I realize the thing missing in his voice is the courage – suddenly, Raffe sounds very, very afraid. "I thought I saw someone. I didn't, though. And I – we're not going to talk about that right now."

"'S okay, Raffe, angel, baby." I use his own tactic against him, and feel him relax slightly beneath me. "We're – we have to be okay. We have to."

Clearing his throat, he shakes his head, nuzzling against me as he does so. "We don't have to be anything. But – but Baelan. We need to – I need to focus. Let's… find Baelan."

I stay quiet, letting him lead me into the camp without another word, simply because Raffe can't handle anymore. Stress radiates from him; I can feel it beneath my hands. Already, he's been pushed and pushed and pushed. Losing his wings, forced to rely on the help of a Daughter of Man (later revealed to be a princess of his hated enemy), getting bat wings, relying on snarky Hugo and silent Ogden (later revealed to be a traitor that hates his guts), learning to accept Bryon, learning to like him, learning all about my uncle.

I don't understand why Raffe's acting this way, though. Surely, what with Bryon being his nemesis for most of their lives, their bond must be relatively recent?

_Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer. _

My heart sobs out a pathetic pulse in my chest. I wrap my arms around Raffe's neck, his pain tangible, his confusion thick in the air. Of course – it's because Bryon was his nemesis for most of his life that Raffe's acting this way. What does he do now? Does he grieve an enemy or the best of friends? A brother or a monster?

"I'm sorry, Raffe," I whisper into his ear, my breath catching. I lean against his head, swallowing down more tears. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this."

He carries me towards the camp silently for a few more strides, the ash becoming greater with each step towards the ruins. "…I don't know what I saw. You're making me paranoid and – he can't be. He can't. Hugo would be a wreck."

I don't bother to mention that Hugo _is_ a wreck. Raffe knows already.

"There."

My own voice surprises me – I jar myself from my own stupor, and fully focus on the thing that my mind has selected from the austere greyness of still-smoldering embers and ash-covered bodies. Frames of houses crumble and collapse around a single concrete box located more or less in the center – no one's really gone far in enough yet to get to it, and it seems like the fires there were quenched very recently. Against the side of the building, a small smudge of red can be seen – not black like charred flesh, but red as freshly fallen blood.

"That's him," Raffe confirms quietly.

He breaks out into a jog towards the red smear against the concrete, leaving puffs of ash in our wake, stirring up our own personal fog to hide us from prying eyes. I can't tell if the ash is from the buildings or from the remnants of dead flowers and I'm not sure I want to. Instead, I focus on the Fallen angel bedded upon it, a light scattering covering his skin like dust upon an old porcelain lying abandoned on a shelf.

I wriggle off Raffe's back the moment we draw close enough for me to see him, truly see him – my feet sink a few inches in the ash, and, throat clogging with emotion, I wade towards Baelan.

His dark, beautiful wings are in tatters around him, like two delicate silk sheets shredded by the wind. Pockmarks left by embers dot up along the bone, and slices carved out by blades leaving a fringe to fan out over the ashen carpet. The moment my feet hit the ground, he beats with them futilely, as if I'd startled him. They bat at the ash and stir up a cloud, dusting him in more pasty grey.

"Calm down," I soothe, easing up next to him. Slowly, the wings whip around with less disjointed ferocity, quieting like a caged animal listening to the sound of a lullaby. "Hush, hush, Bay, it's just me… I'm here… You're going to be okay…"

A hoarse growl comes from the direction of the living corpse before me. He shakes with a coughing fit, and I only then realize it was his attempt at speech. With each time his body convulses with his coughing, a fresh pump of blood stains the ash around a gaping wound in his stomach, and another in the right side of his chest.

I freeze, horror strangling each beat of my heart, as the wounded angel again attempts to speak.

This time, his voice is a quiet, two-pitch whine. He stares up at me beggingly with dark eyes set on a dying, sallow face, a film already forming over their surface. Lower lip trembling, Bay extends a hand to me, a plea so potent it doesn't need words.

I lope forward and string out fingers together, kneeling before him in a puddle of sticky, blood-soaked ash. His hand is warm, and his grip is comfortingly firm – maybe he's not as bad off as he seems.

Panting, Baelan turns to me with wide, dark eyes, his face filled with a thousand things he wants to say. Slipping out first is the one that means the most to him.

"Hugo," Bay wheezes. A tear spills over his eyes. "Safe…?"

"Yes, yes." I nod a few times. "He's fine. Curled up a few yards away from the camp. Are you okay?"

He nods painfully. "Burnt. Hurt. Ow. Okay."

"You're burnt and it hurts but you'll be okay." Raffe lets out a breath behind me, sounding relieved. "Excellent. You truly are a remarkably Fallen angel, Baelan. I don't think I've ever told you that."

"Still… angel." His lips quirk weakly, and his poor burnt thumb gently caresses the top of my hand. "Hugo…?"

"Wallowing in blame as we speak," I tell him, smiling wryly. "He's going to be so glad to hear you're alright. God, Bay, I'm so glad you're okay. I thought for sure…"

"Tougher… than I thought." Bay closes his eyes and sighs, wilting against the side of the building. "Get him…? Please…?"

"I'll do that," Raffe volunteers, flashing me a dazzling, relieved smile. "Stay there, and I'll –"

Bay flails his wings around again, puffing up the air. He shakes his head vigorously, seeming upset with something Raffe had said. I freeze, wincing as he accidentally hits me in the head with his awkward flapping. When at last he stills, Bay is still rocking his head from side to side.

"Safety… together." He jabs a finger towards me. "Can't protect… both. Go… with him."

"I can protect us," I soothe. "Raffe, give me your sword, I'll –"

"No." Smiling sadly, Bay shakes his head again. "Not against… your own people. You won't. …Can't. Safety together. I… m'fine."

Raffe rests a hand on my shoulder. "He's saying that he doesn't doubt your ability to protect him, but he doubts your resolve to stand up against fellow humans. His argument is basically mine – if anyone hostile sees you sticking up for him, you're as dead as he is."

"No… choice," Bay adds weakly.

"He doesn't want you to have to choose between protecting him or your own people, too."

"Got it." I stand on shivering legs, turning back to Raffe. "Thanks, Bay. You're so brave, you know that?" I smile shyly down at him. "One of the bravest people I know. Listen, Raffe and I, we'll get Hugo, and be back in a snap, okay?"

"Okay." He curls up in on himself, sighing contentedly with rattling lungs, murmuring Hugo's name once to himself like a prayer. Bruised, tired eyelids seal shut on his dark eyes, and, with one last heavy sigh, Bay presumably continues to sleep peacefully against the husk of a dead building.

"Quickly, now," Raffe whispers in my ear, scooping me up into his arms. "Let's move."

If I thought he pounded up a fog when we arrived, it doesn't compare to the trail we leave in our wake as he speeds off towards Hugo – his heart throbs right against my ear with each scoop of ash he throws into the air. I realize my heart is racing, too – this time, I see more, I see more blood and more injured men and more carcasses burned beyond recognition, but I no longer really care. My thoughts soar upon the opportunity of reuniting two lovers in this hell.

Someone, after all, should be happy.

It makes sense for those two to be Bay and Hugo.

…It certainly won't be me.

_My uncle is dead._

"I should tell you," Raffe murmurs as he bursts back into the forest, beelining back towards Hugo, "that Bay is doing a remarkable job just being alive. He may suffer from permanent psychological damage, though – he went up against Michael himself to buy Hugo a little more time. God knows only dead men dare do that."

Floundering a bit in his arms, I bite my lip worriedly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Raffe sighs heavily, "that Baelan was to Michael what Josiah is to me now, only more reverent, respectful. Baelan worshipped the dirt on Michael's feet. He disobeyed Michael in every retrospect to escape. Being abused so harshly by his boss, tossed aside like… like _nothing_… could have some damage on him."

I shake my head against Raffe's chest. "Maybe that's for the better. Hugo's own little mental state after this is going to be… not pretty. They can heal each other."

Eyes swimming with emotion I don't even try to put a label on, Raffe watches me for a long few seconds, before glancing off into the pasty forest. "Yeah, I suppose they can. At least if they help stitch each other up, they'll grow closer."

"They'll know each other even more than they do already," I agree quietly. "Inside out and backwards."

"Inside out and backwards," he repeats, nodding.

I pull myself close to Raffe, feeling secure wedged in his arms, and he holds me tightly against him. We lapse into as comfortable a silence as possible whilst walking through a forest of dead beauty. In the corner of my eye, I see more bewildered and jaded people staring at us from logs, from beneath makeshift shelters, watching with sunken, uninterested eyes – they do not disturb us, and we don't cross paths with them. The silence is preserved.

The only small interruption in Raffe's stride occurs as he jogs past the shooting range again. A confused blend of pain and tenacious disbelief flickers in his eyes for a brief second, but he presses onwards without a word to me. Still, I tap my fingers comfortingly against his chest, doing my best to keep him calm.

At last, we stumble upon Hugo pacing back and forth before the log we'd left him at, murmuring shrewdly into his phone. With his scrunched brow and scowl, I can tell he's not enjoying the conversation very much. The moment he sees us, he hangs up and shoves the phone back in his pocket.

"That was the Nephilim guarding your sister," Hugo explains quickly, loping up to us. "They're still all loyal except one, who got executed after a little panic attack that revealed his true intentions. We'll talk with them more later and figure out the plan. …How was your search?"

"He's okay, Hugo." Grinning from ear to ear, I wriggle from Raffe's arms and launch myself at the boy in a wide, earnest embrace. "He's okay, and – and Paige, and – God, thank you for calling…"

"Where is he?" Hugo demands, pulling me back, his eyes sharp as glass. "Where is Bay? Is he alright? Is he… is he missing any fundamental body parts?"

Raffe grunts, shrugging. "I'm not going to lie, he's in less pieces than I expected him to be. He won't be able to fly until his wings heal, but his wings will heal. But all and all, he'll be fine."

Releasing his breath in one quick puff, Hugo practically collapses against me, knotting his hands in my hair. "Oh, thank the fucking Lord. Jesus Christ. I'm going to warn you, the moment he croaks out that cute little 'Okay, Hugo' I'm going to fucking lose it." His arms clutch me tight. "Thank fuck. Thank fuck."

"Stay calm, little man," Raffe grunts, patting his head awkwardly. "If you – just… keep your head on your shoulders. Baelan is… not his prettiest at the moment."

"Mmm," Hugo hums, his voice rumbling against my neck. After a moment, he unlocks his arms from around me, and approaches Raffe. Linking his arms around Raffe, he looks himself around the torso of my angel, holding on like – well, like a monkey. "Don' worry about that. You should've seen some of the stuff he's been through on Lucifer's vendettas. See, I have this tradition with him – for each scratch or scrape or bruise he's got, I put a bow in his hair. Like, I take a little sprig and I pull it up in a ribbon. Don' tell him I told him. He's got this weird thing about his reputation…"

"Alright, Hugo." I give both him and Raffe a squeeze in the same hug. "Should we… go?"

"Quickly as possible," Raffe agrees, flashing me a terse smile. "Hugo, you'll be able to get him down to hell, to some infirmary? Or some help?" He murmurs something that sounds like a confirmation against Raffe's chest. "Alright, because, Penryn, you and I need to get out of here, quickly." He lifts his head, eyes uneasily grazing the surrounding wilderness. "There's unease."

"Unease?" I loop our fingers together, rubbing a thumb over the back of his hand. "Give me Pooky Bear, I'll watch our backs."

"You go, Penryn," Hugo says, his voice muffled. "Defend your man."

Rolling his eyes, Raffe furtively hands me his sword, seeming reluctant. He pulls me close against him for a second, and placing his lips beside my ears, whispers, "Don't let anyone see that. Their suspicion will go through the roof if you have an angel sword on you."

"How bad is it?" I murmur.

"Bad. We need to get to Baelan, and get the hell out of here. _They've found more guns_."

Punctuating his quiet hiss is a gunshot that echoes through the woods – a few people scream, and something stirs in the distance as a squirrel leaps into a tree, but nothing else happens. Raffe lifts his head, scanning the area again like a deer watching for predators. I wait for him to tap my arm and goad me forwards.

"Quick, quick," he urges softly. "That was a warning shot. Let's not find out whether or not that warning was heeded."

I don't waste time – splitting off through the forest, my legs pound after the trail we'd left in the ash leading back to the injured warrior. Raffe effortlessly keeps pace with me. Through the small space between us, I can sense his overdrive of awareness, but I can't determine whether it's paranoia or if there's things moving that I can't see, things happening that I can't hear.

Somewhere along the way, I hear Hugo burst into quiet, sniffling tears against Raffe, and almost stop to comfort him – the heel of Raffe's hand gently shoves me forward as I slow, urging me back up to a full pace. Around my mountain of anxiety for Hugo, my heart feels warm when my archangel instead comforts him.

"He's dead, he's dead, what am I going to do – fuck – fuck – he's dead –"

"Calm down, Hugo. Breathe. Breathe. It's going to be alright. I promise. I promise. Deep breaths. Hush, shh…"

A leader's gotta be tough, but I suppose that he's been through his fair share of casualty, too, and… no one helps another heal better than a survivor. I really don't know anything about archangels, but if they're like the dads of the flock – well, then, Raffe'd make a really great dad.

I shake my head dismissively, gritting my teeth for ever having thought like that. Now is not the time to be dwelling on the excessive beauties of Wrath of God. There are more important things to dwell on.

Like, for instance, the fact that my uncle is dead.

A sharp pang stings my heart. Abruptly, Hugo's sobs become that much louder in my ears than Raffe's soft-spoken comforts.

Another shot sounds over the horizons, followed quickly by another couple. The eerie silence that follows is perhaps the worst yet. I freeze like a deer in the headlights, scanning the area as I've seen Raffe do, absolutely terrified. I swear my heart is beating in my throat, each pound of it throbbing through my body like the smash of waves on a rocky shore, constant, crushing, absolutely brutal –

Raffe nudges me. "Keep moving. We need to keep moving."

"Right." I jog forward again, but, this time, I make sure it's not in the silence of a prey animal being stalked by a predator. "Raffe, what's going on?"

"…I'm not quite sure." I can hear the troubled frown in his voice. "A bunch of humans have found an emergency stock of weapons. They aren't happy, that's for certain. And… I'm also fairly certain there's nothing but humans in the area."

My mind leads me easily to what that could mean – humans firing upon humans. As if our problems weren't huge enough.

"I am going to wring Michael's neck," Raffe growls, startling me. "I'm going to have to find you another relatively-stable monkey group to get satisfied in before I leave now."

Right. A monkey group. Because my uncle is dead. And Emilio is hurt. And Paige is God knows where.

"You just focus on getting the angelic bastards out of here," I sigh heavily, "and we won't have to worry about Michael being a problem. I can always hole up alone somewhere."

"Yeah, well, you humans get even more ornery when you're all by your lonesome. You'd be a sight to behold considering your irritation levels are already pretty high."

"You paint me as a moody bitch."

"That's right," Raffe corrects himself, "you definitely scale more on the stoic bitch range, don't you?"

"Shut up, you arrogant angel dick."

He laughs quietly. "I never said that was a bad thing, Penryn. In my eyes, it's not a bad thing at all."

My heart flutters pathetically in my chest. Goddammit, I do not need more hormones in this situation – I need to be cold, ice cold, hard as a rock, detached. I need to be a stoic bitch. Which, according to Raffe, isn't a bad thing at all.

A shot rolls through the forest, sounding closer this time, and the fluttering teenage girl heart gets the boot. I jolt forward with twice the speed, heart racing. I can see the ash-caked buildings now in the distance, see their lonely burning spires. A sigh of relief empties itself from my chest, a sense of panic leaving with it.

"Penryn, stop."

I freeze, doing as Raffe instructs. Peering around cautiously, I roll my thumbs over Pooky Bear's hilt and await his command. His head is cocked like a dog's, his eyes raptured and distant, caught in something he can hear but cannot see.

"Shit." He stamps his feet twice like a cornered animal bracing itself for a fight. "Penryn, we need to – _shit_, Penryn, move!"

"What?" My hands tighten around Pooky Bear's hilt, but there's nothing for me to swing at. "Where is it, Raffe? What's –"

"We are not the ones in trouble," he growls, shoving me forward. "Run. Run."

My heart beats in my throat.

Dear God.

Without wasting another moment, I bolt through the undergrowth. Lungs burning, I dart between trees and jump across ravines Raffe had swerved to avoid. I take shortcuts and almost slam into more than one family lying hidden in the soot-covered bushed. Pooky Bear, sensing my distress, shoots adrenaline, pure and unbridled, into my veins. It fuels every step of my sprint.

Frantically, I dive underneath a halfway-fallen tree, startling a couple of birds. I can't lose anyone else. I can't let Hugo lose Bay. I can't lose Bay.

For all I know, Raffe could be nipping at my heels as I hurl myself into the rubble of the human camp, but I feel incredibly alone as I brave the ruins. My dash staggers as my feet fall improperly over stone and singed wood. Not alone in the sense that this forlorn wasteland is unhabited, because I can hear people, hear their jeers and cries of anger echoing through the ash that falls like snowflakes, but alone in the sense that I, myself, am on my own and facing a crowd.

I don't quite remember the way, I realize, tripping over a body burned beyond recognition, my nose wrinkling at the terrible scent wafting into the air. Stumbling around blindly through the streets, squinting through a fog of ash that'd evidently been whipped up, I search for a path, any path. Any incentive of where Bay lies vulnerable.

A small group of teenage boys, sneering and scoffing, suddenly splits through the fog. I start and skitter back, trying to both hide Pooky Bear and hold her in case they serve as a threat. Their scowls are not meant for me. Triumphant cackles are exchanged, proclamations on the glory of humanity, about how the winged bastards cannot possibly hope to stand against us forever. They talk about a victim not having a chance, recall the fear in its eyes, and cheer on humanity's victory.

Their wolfish grins and predatory eyes plant a small kernel of fear in the pit of my stomach. I don't move, terrified that they may spot me and force me to spend more time away from Bay. Luckily, though, they don't give two bothers about the girl crouching in the fog, and thank God for that. The moment they leave, I head in the opposite direction, trying not to dwell too much over the realization that the jeers and cries of anger have silenced.

I know this path. My eyes hungrily trace Raffe's footsteps in the ash and destruction. I've been here. I know where… My eyes follow the line of our footsteps to the heart of the mangled camp.

And then there he is, leant up against the side of the concrete building.

He is still. Just like he was when we first approached. So completely still. Just like he was. Only this time, I am still, too, frozen by the threat of what could be. And I cannot for the life of me move from my spot, rooted here, watching that still face.

The ash spirals like snowflakes between us. They hold a certain sense of beauty, of poignancy – for all they look like snow, perhaps they could be just innocent little dollops of winter's gentlest aspect, circling down in lazy coils. It almost seems pretty, those grey flakes. It's so easy to forget that this isn't snow come to blanket the world in its lovely white – it's the heavy tears of homes and lives reduced to tinder in the maw of a spiteful inferno.

I hear someone approaching, wading through the ash, and Raffe's heavy breathing echoes in my ear. Subconsciously, I lean towards him and his warmth until my shoulder bumps against his chest. As Hugo wriggles from his back, hitting the ground with a mushroom of ash and closing the last of the distance between his Fallen angel, Raffe does not anywhere but closer to me.

We are both locked into position, staring silently. The same numb shock probably dulls his senses, too, for, although Bay had been still and all signs of life had not been visible from this far away, there had not been so much…

So much…

Red.

"Bay!" I hear Hugo shout distantly. "Oh my God, Bay, fucking hell, are you bleeding? What hurts? Jesus fucking Christ, man, I'll get you to help, baby, I'll get you – Bay?"

With blind, groping fingers, I reach out to fist Raffe's shirt, holding him close to me, unable to look away as Hugo crashes to his knees beside the far-too-still, far-too-red angel.

"Hey, Bay, look at me when I'm talking to you. Bay! …Bay? Man… no, no, no… you're freaking me out. Bay. Bay. Bay… _Stop_."

The angel's head lolls back as Hugo shakes his body, and every motion of the angel's limbs have a stiffness to them. The boy sinks onto his haunches beside his angel, sitting in the sticky, blood-soaked ash encircling his Baelan.

"Please. Pl – no. _No_. Please, Bay. For me. Don't… _don't be dead_. You can't… you can't be. You can't be dead."

Questions whispered to unhearing ears cannot be answered. The dead do not talk back.

Hugo cuddles against Bay's side, shifting himself closer, staining his special steampunk outfit red with the life essence that no longer holds life. He presses his forehead against the shoulder crushed and mangled as if he'd been stoned by the rocks lying around them, wiggles beneath the wing that'd been pulled and ripped until only a few tendons connect it to him. He cups that cheek torn open by any number of things, caressing the bruises under the milky, dead eyes upon his boyfriend's face. Sobs sounding more hollow than emotional ripping from his chest, Hugo cuddles against his boyfriend, laying a hand over a heart that should be beating.

"This is our fault," I realize. My voice sounds more crippled than I'd expected, and it causes me to lean more heavily into Raffe's touch. "Us. This wasn't the angels or demons or anything. We… we killed Bay."

"Penryn…" Raffe wipes a thumb over my cheek, and I notice that I'm crying, that tears are streaking down my face despite the lack of anything going on in my chest.

In my moment of weakness, I turn to him, looking up into his eyes. Stomaching a sob, I whisper, "Raffe, if we do things like this… if we kill people like that… do we even deserve to be saved?"

Raffe has no answer.

"It's okay, Bay," Hugo sobs in the long, hallowing silence. "It's okay. You're okay. It's… _okay_."

* * *

**Guest: Okay, man, you win this round, haha...**

**God, I made myself cry with this chapter. **

**I'm sorry it took so long. This killing off character thing… is excruciating. Especially Bay… I love him. **

**But so did a lot of other people. And if they weren't pissed off by Bryon's death… well, they're pissed off now.**

**POLL: Someone is especially going to be displeased with this. They're going to bring down hell. Two someones, actually. Any guesses as to who those two someones are?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	68. Chapter Sixty-Seven

**Chapter Sixty Eight**

"She's tired," Raffe whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "Don't touch her. Is my bed made?"

"Yes, sir." Josiah's anxious voice barely pierces through my conscious. "Is she alright? Are they supposed to be that pale?"

"No, not really," Raffe sighs. I feel him move, feel myself sinking down, and the cool softness of a mattress caving beneath me. "There you are," he croons, slowly slipping his arms out from under me. My hair is swept from my face, tucked gently behind me ear, but I only mumble in response. He chuckles sadly, and I feel him move away from the bed.

"Do you know if anyone saw me? Or noticed that I was gone?" Raffe questions intently.

"Well," Josiah says nervously, "I don't know if anyone saw you – you did a pretty good job with staying undercover. And no one came and knocked the door down while you were gone."

"Alright." Raffe heaves a sigh of relief. "Michael probably noticed, of course, can't do anything about that, but if I talk to him soon, he shouldn't bring it up in front of everybody. How's Audiat doing?"

Josiah is quiet for a long, tense moment. "…Do you know who died?"

"What?"

"Someone died, and I… I think it was her husband?" The silence is so glaring I can hear him swallow. "She wasn't… happy. In fact… no one really was. Maion was there with Metatron, and she got angry, and Metatron, her memory's all…" He makes an undulating whistling noise. "So that was confusing. Then Ariel walked in and started yelling at no one in particular and smashed a few of Audiat's sculptures in her anger and – it was just a mess."

"He's actually dead then," Raffe croaks. "Oh, _fuck._ I don't know what we're going to do, Josiah."

"What?" His voice cracks on the word. Clearing his throat, Josiah repeats, "What do you mean?"

"The Nephilim… they're going to be pissed, Jo. I don't even know how pissed. And if there's something we don't want, it's an entire nation of pissed Nephilim."

"It was Bryon, wasn't it?" Josiah whispers hoarsely. "Bryon's dead?"

Silence greets him, but it's a heavy sort of silence. The kind of silence like the swell of an ocean wave as it rolls closer to the shore, only just beginning to rise up into what will eventually become a frothing, white break upon jagged rocks. The silence in a courtroom before a life is changed forever. The long, tense silence after a gunshot is fired in a distant neighborhood, a time of fright and apprehension of the sirens to come. A silence that says more than words would.

"But…" Josiah makes a small noise of fear in the back of his throat. "Wasn't he the only thing standing between you and the Nephilim?"

Raffe remains quiet.

* * *

_"I got the sense, Raphael," Bryon almost laughs, "that you wanted to talk with me. What's troubling you, archangel? Because there most certainly is something, isn't there?"_

_"Oh, yeah," Raffe agrees grouchily, taking a lengthy sip from his coffee without turning around to look at Bryon. "Definitely."_

_The angel leans upon the railing stacked between the two feet of an arch in the courtyard of the Secrem Domu castle. The morning light is soft and yellow, and the first few bumblebees of the day and the last couple of the season buzz lazily from flower to flower in the courtyard's center garden. Raffe, with one arm garbed in armor, looks as if he's about to go off to a training session of his own, whereas Bryon –_

_My heart stutters. _

_Bryon looks so heartbreakingly like Bryon. With a simple beige top and dark brown cargo pants shadowed by the folds of the silky brown cloak, he stands half-hidden in the darkness of the archway. In the light, his eyes sparkle, as does a muted shimmer in the beauty of the cloak – my heart aches with the knowledge that I shall see neither's gleam ever again. His smile is so carefree and innocent – the way he was before Belle, before Theobella, before the Tyab'la and all his guilt. _

_"Might I ask," Bryon says, stepping further into the light, "what, exactly, it is that's troubling you, old friend? Is there any way I could remedy it?"_

_Raffe slams his coffee mug against the stone in an expression of frustration. Growling deep in his throat, he wheels around, lips pricked in a snarl. "Why are you so nice to me?" he snaps angrily. _

_Bryon blinks, taken aback. "What do you mean?"_

_"I mean I am your enemy." Raffe's eyebrow twitches once. "I have killed countless members of your kind. I have slaughtered you like cattle. I cut off your sister's head in front of you, I murdered those others upon the mountain like they were bothersome pests. Why do you continue to treat me so kindly? As if I'm your guest here? What is your ulterior motive?"_

_Bryon laughs, the sound of it like a balm to my frayed and tired mind. "There is nothing sinister in my offering of friendship, Raphael."_

_"Every day," he continues, caring not for Bryon's words, "you stand there and you treat every man the same. You don't disgrace yourself but you don't disgrace anyone else either. It's puzzling. Why do you act so… so supernaturally fair?"_

_"It isn't supernatural at all!" Bryon says laughingly. _

_"There it is again." Confounded, Raffe waves his hand. "That never ending… content. That happy-go-lucky cheer. Your sense of righteousness and fairness. It's… why?"_

_"My fairness?" Bryon's eyebrows rise. "Are you asking me why I treat every man as my better? I assume so. Well, Raphael, it's because I know my own fate, as well as everyone else's. A man can live a good life or a poor one, a life of wealth or one of poverty, one surrounded with love and compassion or one with hatred and greed, but we all unite in the end. No matter our species, our color, our sex, our beliefs, our wealth, our personality, our anything, we all unite in death. And if everyone is equal in the end, why treat anyone as anything _but_ equal?"_

_Raffe is the one that seems now taken aback. "…That's a very wise way to think about it. Deep and really emo. But not all of us end in death. I'm immortal. I live on forever and ever and ever."_

_Bryon's chuckle is this time much more rich, much more deep, layered with things I know I'll never understand. "You and I both know that's not true, Raphael. Every story has its ending, no matter how good a book it is, no matter how many pages you turn without knowing what is to befall your beloved character next. Even yours. Even mine."_

_"Sure," Raffe grunts, leaning against the archway, observing Bryon with clever blue eyes. "But our story? That'll never end. I will always be Wrath of God. And you will always be the monster I hunt. And we'll just continue going on that way for all of eternity."_

_"I am mortal, Raphael," Bryon says softly, looking off into the sunlight. "Our tale will most certainly come to an end."_

_An awkward moment of silence passes. Raffe seems even more troubled than before, jumping where he stands at Bryon's words. Just like after our dip in the ocean, he seems upset with the concept of mortality, and disturbed by the fact that his age-old nemesis might actually meet an end. Bryon studies the sun, distracted by something so massive and anciently beautiful, while, in the same moment, Raffe studies the softly bouncing bumblebees, watching their legs slowly yellow with the last pollen of the season. _

_"Raffe, do you know what to do when you reach the end of a truly good story?" Bryon questions quietly, his voice almost like a poet's, flowing over the words rhythmically. "When you've just been immersed in the story of a life and then suddenly, everything you knows just cracks apart in your hands as you slow down and read the last page with care and wistfulness, longing for just another paragraph, just even one more sentence. And then once you read the end, you think back through all the words and sentences and all the adventures you shared, good and bad, and sometimes it brings tears to your eyes. Every now and then, we find books that we wish never had endings, and are heartbroken by the fact that they do, like everything, have that one final page. _

_"But, with some time, we begin to realize something: it's not the ending's finality we should be thinking about at all. A story is only beautiful because it ends, wrapped up in a bow like a little present for you to unwrap. Stories happen, and then they end. The only way a tale can truly impact you is if you never forget it. Don't only think of the ending, but rather, live the whole tale in your heart, remember the lessons you learned whilst emerged in the adventure, and never, ever forget the times you shared with that particular story. That's how you react to a story's end. You let it live on with you."_

* * *

The first thing I notice waking up is the odor of burned cookies.

Stinging my nose with each breath, it clings suffocatingly in the air like a blanket of smoke, pungent and unpleasant. I cough once in a vain attempt to clear my throat of the awful smell, but it only makes me aware of the stale, dry taste in my mouth. Moaning, I curl my body around the sheets I'd bundled up in my arms. Breathing through the caramel fabric is slightly more bearable, and the sheets are laced with Raffe's scent, which efficiently distracts my nose from what smells like a failed attempt at baking.

Curiously, I peek one eye open. I'm alone in the room – the light shimmers in between curtains, yellow and playful. Perhaps I should be slightly worried, about being abandoned here with the smell of something burning, but surrounded by the smell of Raffe, it's more like I'm swaddled in security.

With a small, guttural groan, I shove myself off the bed. As much as I may attempt to ignore that smell, it's not going to go away. My feet sting with pins and needles, and my clothes from the disaster that was yesterday are stiff and chaffing me in all the wrong places. I make a mental vow to change into something much, much more comfortable the moment I check to make sure Raffe doesn't burn the place down with the wreckage of his cooking.

The kitchenette is littered with dirty bowls and measuring cups, a few used muffin tins stacked in the corner as if the poor archangel had tried making cookies in those. A mound or two of lump dough dots over the tiny counter, and a tray of unappetizingly black cookies sit upon the oven; the chocolate chips seem melted, trails of brown still solidifying on the metal. In the corner of the tray, it looks like someone tried to pry off a cookie, and failed – a broken spatula sits dejectedly nearby.

Next to the sad little cookies that probably never should've even been attempted are two notes, one scrawled across a sliver of notebook paper ripped in several places, the other on an entire sheet with neat print.

Naturally, the sloppy one is Raffe's – if you squint hard at the signature at the bottom, it looks a bit like his name in something that remotely resembles English. For the life of me, I can't understand the rest of it. I squint and strain my eyes, turning it every which way, holding it up against the light. Every so often, I recognize a letter amongst the chicken scratch.

"Raffe, your handwriting sucks," I grumble to myself, throwing down the paper in frustration. Sighing, I turn my attention to the much more legible note left by Josiah.

_Penryn! Hello!_

_I figured I'd leave you this because, well, I can't understand anything on that slip Raffe left for you, so I figured you wouldn't either. He scrawled it last minute before he darted off the balcony – I think that ending bit says something about Mean Girls 2? _

_Anyway, as you probably also see, we tried to make you cookies. Don't ever, ever ask angels to make you cookies again. Least of all Raffe. We aren't cut out for this life. _

_Kidding. _

_I realize we didn't exactly hit it off at the aerie you guys kind of blew up, but in my defense, I had no earthly idea you were a princess, and neither did you. I know you're probably not very open to chumming up with another angel after all that's happened, but… hopefully we can at least be on good terms. _

_You've been asleep for two days, by the way. In that time, all of the aeries in Europe have fallen, as well as all those in Russia or Canada or anywhere cold that we don't have a huge foothold. Michael has been cracking down on this whole political thing – he wants it out of the way, I think, so Raffe can get back to, um, "exterminating the pests". _

_Audiat is doing better. She's started a project upstairs to help her feel better about your uncle. Maybe we'll go up there when Raffe gets back? _

_Emilio remains more-or-less the same. He's in the hospital wing downstairs, and luckily, no one's really questioned his presence. I think he really needs you right now. According to Hugo, he's insisting on hearing the moment you wake up. If that happens to be while we're away, well, he'll be overjoyed. _

_Hugo is not doing good. I won't butter it up for you. He wavers between a state of comatose and mindless blabbering every day. _

_Your sister called us on your phone and demanded to speak to you. Raffe refused to wake you up, but she knows something's up, and I'm not sure how. Just prepare yourself for the worst. _

_I think that's got all the bases covered? Sorry about the shitty cookies. Good luck reading Raffe's note. We'll be back from this boring meeting soon._

_XOXO,_

_Josiah_

Sighing, I gingerly place the note back on the counter. My stomach growls vindictively. Taking one glance at the shitty cookies, I decide to instead trust myself with the few glorious apples sitting in a painted ceramic fruitbowl.

The apples taste delicious – even here in the aerie, the food always tastes slightly stale, slightly blended together, but not even the apocalypse can do anything with the crispness of fresh fruit. Before I know it, there's three cores in the trash can and another's well on its way to joining them.

I linger in the kitchen for a while longer, staring answerlessly at Raffe's note, attempting to figure out what he'd been trying to relay. I see what Josiah means about _Mean Girls_, but the figure after it looks more like an _&amp; _symbol than a _2 _in my eyes. Honestly, it could go either way.

Still focused on the note, I amble mindlessly out of the kitchen. Frowning, I hold it up against the light. Does that say _love_…? No, no, that's not an L, it's connected to what I'd thought was a fucked up G.

"Dammit, Raffe," I sigh, rubbing my thumbs at my temple.

"I'm no good at reading his handwriting, either."

A muffled shriek escapes my lips, and I fly backwards. My shoulders slam against the wall, and pain shoots through my back, but I hardly have time to care. Eyes darting about, heart thumping like a trapped mouse, I stare into the golden-yellow eyes of a massive angel, sitting upon the couch.

When I say massive, I mean massive in every sense of the word. Beneath teakwood-colored skin, he's muscled. Way, way muscled, the sort of muscled that's beyond attractive and just sort of grotesque. Against the wall, two oddly-shaped dun wings are spread like ornate decoration; not only are they huge, but they're built different in a way I can't quite explain. Raffe's can fold up easily onto his back, but these look like they can't fit into that small a space. Maybe that's what's different. They're bulky.

Disregarding my shock and fright almost entirely, he leans forward, throwing down an issue of _Tiger Beat._ "Apologies, I thought you knew I was here. Suppose not. But you did stumble past me on your way to the kitchen, so forgive me for assuming."

"Who – what –" I splutter nonsensically in the doorway for a few more moments, before stiffening and lifting my apple up in a threat to hurl it at him. Glaring, I manage to get out, "You're Michael, aren't you?"

"Yes, certainly." He rises from the couch, and, watching him soar up to a height of nearly eight feet, eight immensely broad and muscled feet, my mouth drops open slightly. "And you're Penryn Young, heir to Bryon's throne, aren't you?"

_Knives. There are steak knives in the kitchen. If I could possibly just make it there…_

"How do you know that?" I snap suspiciously, eyeing him nervously.

"I make it my business to know everything that happens under the roof of my dwelling, Your Majesty." He tips his mighty head respectfully, throwing me through yet another loop. "May I first say to you that I am… sincerely sorry for your loss." Though the depthless emotion in his amber eyes doesn't even flicker, he dips his head in shame. "Bryon was a good man to me, and a worthy opponent. It was never my intention to bring his demise, no matter how indirect it was."

I bite at my lower lip, ignoring the stab of pain the mention of my uncle brings to my heart. "You're not here to apologize. You're here for something else."

One slender eyebrow cocks up in genuine surprise. "Clever girl. I'll admit, it was not just sympathy him that brought me here – I wish to know your political plans. The Nephilim are a bit of a menace at the moment, and I'd like to shut that down without ticking them off further, Your Majesty."

Snorting rudely, I shake my head. "Good luck with that. You'll be lucky if you escape with half the force you came down here with. And I honestly have no idea – I've been asleep for two days. So if you would kindly get the _fuck_ out of here."

"I hope I'm not spooking you." Michael looks at me with something akin to polite disdain, like I'm the one that's being rude. "My intentions were not to do so. I'm not going to slice you into pieces, if that's what you're afraid of. Please, put down the apple. I don't think anyone would take very kindly to being assaulted by fruit."

My suspicion is not quite soothed, but I lower the apple, sneaking a quick bite on the way down. "You don't seem a lot like the kind of guy that would lead an army of bloodthirsty pigeon-people. Little bit more diplomatic."

Michael's lips quirk. "You'll find that some of us in the ranks actually pay attention to the world around us instead of living with our heads up our asses. I'm one of those. I regret to inform you that your boyfriend is one of those with his head in his anal cavity."

I choke on the apple bite, my stomach twisting into a little ball. Throwing a hand out to grab at the doorway, I steady myself, praying to god that my stomach won't betray me and my breakfast. I whisper, "How…?"

"I'm not blind, that's how." He cocks an eyebrow, collapsing back against the couch, gesturing for me to sit in the plush armchair beside him. "That's another thing I'd like to talk about, actually: your opinion on Raphael, Wrath of God, murderer of thousands of your kin."

"What?" Keeping my eyes on him almost unblinkingly, I lower my ass onto the seat – as much as I hate everything about this situation, refusing a polite beckon from the General of Heaven's Armies would not be amiable. "I don't see how it matters."

"I'm trying to make my decision about who to elect as Messenger, Penryn," he says patiently, "and, as I'm sure you're aware, whoever wins my vote might as well win on the spot. As things are, Raffe isn't looking so good. He's a politically sound choice, of course. But he's lied to me every which way, with his conspiracies with the Nephilim and his loss of wings and his escapades by your side. I'd much prefer him as Messenger, but I don't know if I can trust him."

"How do you –?" I shake my head curtly, cutting myself off. "Never mind, I don't need a cryptic explanation. It's not his fault. He – he wasn't lying on purpose, they were all lies because what happened wasn't politically –"

Michael holds up his hands in a calming gesture. "I understand perfectly why he lied to the commoners. I merely have difficulties I can trust a Messenger that doesn't trust me. That is what's most important to me, Your Majesty. He could sit up there talking about having purple wings and three tails and I wouldn't give a damn if he told me the truth, at least."

I study him impassively, trying to leech as much information as I can from that equally impassive face. "So you're saying you want honest communication?"

"I can go fishing for the truth, Your Majesty, but I'd really rather not."

"Why do you think you can trust me, then?" I ask testily. "I'm technically an enemy, you know."

Michael nods a few times, pursing his lips. "True, it seems a bit like a sketchy plan to me, too, but with all honesty, I'm a bit curious as to what you see in him. You're an odd pairing. Maybe you'll help me see some qualities in him that makes Raffe a better partner – because the Messenger and the General, we need to think as one."

"So why don't you just become Messenger, then?" I wonder, tilting my head to one side. "Absolute power or whatever. You seem to have your head on your shoulders, you'd make an okay leader, I think."

Waving his hand dismissively, Michael says, "You can't give that much power to one angel. The system will crack. Gabriel and I figured that out a very, very long time ago – rest in peace, Ilael. And, besides, Your Majesty, do you want the levelheaded one in charge of the relatively laid back civilians or the volatile honed warriors?"

I consider that for a second. The angels at the aeries I've been to before had been chilling and utterly demeaning, but…

Images flash through my mind's eye of angels swaddled in steel, their eyes gleaming, razing those in front of them and mercilessly demolishing a town to ashes in under thirty minutes.

"You're good where you are," I decide, repressing a shudder. "Look, you're here, picking on Raffe for keeping secrets… and he's totally been doing that. But it's for a good reason, which you've basically just admitted. That said… do you know what Uriel's been poking around in?"

Acute interest sharpens in his eyes for the first time. "He told me about his scheme to cut off Raphael's wings, yes," Michael says slowly. "It was how I unlocked the door to all of our dearest Wrath of God's recent activities."

"Raffe did what he had to survive," I assert firmly, making sure to show none of my internal scramble for adequate words, "and that's that. He kept it quiet because he was frightened for my safety and everyone that helped him. He was loyal to his followers and helpers, the ones that wouldn't be able to stand up against a big bad archangel. Forgive him if that meant skirting around the truth a little with you. And, honestly, is that all you know about Uriel?"

"Why?" He narrows his eyes at me, seeming acutely interested. "Is there more to the other's tale?"

I study him keenly, my eyes trailing down the square set of his jaw, the coldness in his eyes, the intrigued twist in his lips. "Do you know… what happened in Alcatraz?" I swallow with difficulty. "About the… things he did to my people?"

"No." His eyes narrow further, and his tone takes on a delicate cadence. "But something about the way you're acting tells me I _should_."

I stand on shaking legs, sucking in a pained breath. "Yes, you should." Clearing my throat, I take on a more professional tone – after all, I'm a princess, so I'd better start acting like it. "It's appalling, you know? Coming in her and invading on our personal space to accuse Raffe of things that his opponent has done much worse than. I have to say, Michael, my first impression of you isn't that great."

Michael's smile is icy cold. "Exactly mine of yours, princess. But you've got no idea what you're doing, so I'll pardon your rudeness. In the mean time… are you sure you've got nothing against the torture Raffe placed upon your people?"

I shrug, trying not to let his words bother me too much. "Whatever happens in the past stays in the past, and he's sorry anyway. Look, you need to leave. Come back and judge Raffe once you learn the truth about all the shady scams Uriel's been pulling. If you don't mind, I'd like to have my privacy back, thank you. Don't you have a meeting?"

"Yes, I do," Michael sighs, pushing himself up hastily. In the corner of my eye, I watch his wings curl back by his sides – the crests loom high above his shoulders, held out and arched in on themselves rather than folded neatly against his back. Were Gabriel's like that, too? I don't know, I never got a good look at them.

"Fortunately, though, my status does come with its perks. I can afford to be late." Suddenly, he passes me a warmer glance than I'd been accustomed to, throwing me for another loop. "You're quite a strong little monkey, Penryn Young. No matter how dismal our first impressions may have been of each other… I am curious to see how you mature as a leader and as a person. If you're anything like you're uncle, there's nowhere to go but up."

I blush, staring down at my hands, trying to understand the rapid change in temperament. "If you're trying to butter me up," I mumble bluntly, "it won't work."

"Of course it wouldn't," he agrees with a chuckle. "You're much too intelligent for that." Michael stretches forward, popping a bone, and groans low in his throat. "Dear Lord, I am not looking forward to listening to those thousand-year-old babies bicker again. Thank you for wasting some of my time, Your Majesty."

Heat splashes over my cheeks. "You don't have to call me that, you know. I'm… not really a princess, not with Ogden around."

Michael pauses, his back to me, and turns his head back – he watches me carefully with one unblinking yellow eye, face suddenly and eerily expressionless. "Yes… it's a shame, isn't it, about _your_ political opponent?"

I blink several times, gawking dumbly at him. "…What?"

"So shameful," Michael continues as if I'd never stopped talking, "to crucify Bryon's reputation with rumors of his possession, only to fall to the same She-Demon. And then the ultimate shame… I expect it's looming on the edge of his conscious. I've always found it funny how history repeats itself – haven't you?"

"Repeats itself?" My heart hammers, booming in my ear. "What are you talking about?"

"Why, Gabriel, of course." Michael begins to stroll towards the door. "Bryon became a problem. He needed to be annihilated by the She-Demon. It's only shameful that Ogden would be compromised, after so much of his campaign waged against it…" He shrugs. "Just an observation. Good day, Your Majesty."

"Wha…" I breathe, blinking over and over again. "…Wait, how do you know that?"

Michael doesn't bother to answer, so I suppose he's decided that he's given me enough information. I watch him swing the door open silently, watch it swing close. His steps fade down the hallway, and I collapse back into the chair.

_You'll find that some of us in the ranks actually pay attention to the world around us instead of living with our heads up our asses._

My apple falls to the ground. Heart hammering, blood roaring in my ears, the hazy thought sweeps across my mind: Michael would be an invaluable ally.

* * *

**Bryon's words of wisdom? Wrote those several months before the rest of this chapter. Good advice, if I do say so myself. Helped coach me through my own grief. **

**Also. Also, also, also. Everything has gone to shit. Surprise. But there's also Michael… and his keen eyes have seen a lot more than anyone knows. Surprise. **

**POLL: It just always made a lot of sense to me that the two tippy-top archangels would be A) bros and B) more aware of everything going on around them. Thoughts about Michael, his character, etc?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	69. Chapter Sixty-Eight

**Emilio's (rather vulgar) Spanish in this chapter:**

**Hija – _daughter _(pronounced like _ee-ha_)**

**Tonto – _stupid_**

**Vivo en un mundo de idiotas – _I live in a world of idiots. _**

**Victoria para el toro! – _victory for the bull!_**

**la bella durmiente despierta – _sleeping beauty awakens_.**

**Maldito – _damn_**

**Chinga usted – _fuck you_**

**joder – _fuck _**

**Baboso – _retard_**

* * *

**Chapter Sixty Eight**

The nurse-angel points down the hallway, nodding clinically. "Yes, the Spaniard's room is the one on the end of the hall, the one with the open door –"

She winces at a sudden burst of noise coming from the exact same room.

"You IDIOT! Maldito! Get out of the goddamned way! THAT IS A – MOVE! THE BULL IS NOT GOING TO SIT THERE. _Oh, _for the love of – _stop! _Vivo en un mundo de idiotas!"

"He's, um." The nurse smiles tensely, her eyes icy as she glares daggers towards the room. "Well, we're lucky this wing is mostly empty, aside from… the… _other one_. Someone managed to find him copies of all the recorded Running of the Bulls and this hallway hasn't been quiet since."

"I see…" I bite at my lip to keep from bursting into laughter as repeated cries of "Tonto! Tonto! Oh, you deserve to be gored to death, baboso! Darwinism! Darwinism!"

"Thank you for leading me down here," I offer the miffed nurse, trying a half-assed smile before letting it drop. "I think… I need to speak to him right now."

She nods in understanding. "Of course. Shall I let –"

"DIE!" Emilio howls from his room, cheering gleefully over the sound of people screaming.

The nurse sighs jadedly, shaking her head. "He watches those tapes on repeat, you know. Apparently, it's baffling to him, the stupidity of people."

"It can be baffling to all of us," I say with a dry chuckle. "Thank you. Um, can you do your best to keep people away from this wing, maybe?"

She hesitates, flinching away from me for a second with a mixed emotion brewing behind her hazel eyes, but that clinical smile returns. "Of course, miss. Take as long as you need."

"Thank you." I offer her a smile that I hope is as emotionless as hers, but it seems to come off as more of a relieved grimace. Thankfully, though, she turns without comment and walks off, her pale blue wings folded tightly beneath her waves of chocolaty hair. With a heavy sigh, I turn and trudge towards the doorway.

"_Move! Move! Chinga usted! _Just run, run – oh, _joder._" I hear the sound of something thumping against a wall, and pause for a second just outside the doorway, grinning weakly to myself. "You know what, sir? You deserved that. That was a bull. Not a pony. You cannot avoid a bull."

Experimentally, I rap my knuckles against the doorframe of Emilio's room, sticking my head in. "Knock, knock?"

A head turns and snaps towards me, a hand reaches for a remote, a finger presses a button, an eye softens with such warm tenderness that it simply seems to melt my nervousness and worry, and half a mouth quirks upwards.

"La bella durmiente despierta," Emilio intones softly, his voice thick with emotion. He sits wordlessly for a second more, and I feel tears building in the back of my throat. At last, he throws his arms out towards me, lips quivering slightly.

"Come here, Penryn," he whispers. "Oh, bella durmiente. Come here, baby girl."

A meek, strangled sound escapes my throat, and I run towards him and throw my arms around his torso.

"Shh, Penryn," Emilio whispers, pulling me onto the bed beside him. "Oh, darling. Let it all out. That's the way. Like that. Just like that."

"I want it to end," I sob, burying my face in his shoulder, ignoring the scratchy fabric of his ugly hospital gown, ignoring the bandages I clutch feebly at, ignoring the fact that only one brown eye glitters with tears. "I don't – I don't – I _can't_…"

"Shh." Emilio rocks me from side to side. "I know. I know." He breathes in shudderingly, nuzzling into my hair. "Trust me, hija, I know. It was too much death. Too much. Correct?"

I nod into his shoulder, sniffling. "And – God, Emilio, your mom – and Bay – and _you_ –"

"I am in quite a state, aren't I?" Emilio sighs, lifting a hand to gently stroke at the bandage pad covering his eye. "I don't think I quite qualify to be your bodyguard anymore, bella durmiente. You're going to have to… find someone else to look after you."

Harshly, I yank myself back from his chest, just enough to glare up at him. "No. Don't you dare."

He strokes my hair sadly, tucking the shorter strands behind my ear. "Penryn," Emilio says softly, "my number one priority is to keep you safe. I cannot do that, wrapped up like a mummy. I cannot fly you from danger anymore. It is unwise."

A few stutter beats escape my heart as I think of this, very, very briefly, before nuzzling back into his chest and giving him an inconsiderately tight squeeze. "No," I murmur against his bandages, ignoring his pained flinch. "No. You can't leave me to. I won't let you. Please?"

Emilio hugs me gingerly. "I will do what I can, darling. But… your safety comes first, alright?" He presses a chaste kiss to the top of my head. "I cannot lose you, either. And you have your sister to think of."

"There's no one better with swords than you," I argue softly. "And we can figure something out. We can. I know it. We have to."

"Of course." Sadly, Emilio cradles me against him, resting his chin at my temple. "We can always try. …How long have you been up, my dear? Are you just wandering alone or is there someone lurking out in the hall?"

I shift into a more comfortable position, pillowing my head on his shoulder and wrapping him in a gentler embrace, much more mindful of the healing ribs I'd just strangled. He patiently waits for my response, allowing me to move around him stilly.

"I woke up a few minutes ago." Hesitantly, I glance up towards him, chewing at my lip. "Actually, um. I need to talk to you about that. When I woke up… Raffe and Josiah were gone… and Michael. He… he was there."

Emilio's voice is even, icy. "What."

"He was on the couch." I curl into him further. "He… he apologized. For killing…" I clutch at his hospital gown, rubbing my cheek against its coarse fabric. "For killing all those people."

"Just like that?" His single eye simmers with rage. "Just unannounced and unwarranted?"

"Yeah. Yeah, basically."

"How dare he," Emilio growls, collecting me in his arms again. "How dare that bastard even approach you. Offering insincere apologies! The nerve! I tell you, Penryn, I shall behead him one day in your name."

I sniff a bit, a weak, strangled chuckle escaping me. "Thank you, Emilio. But that wasn't all he wanted."

"Oh?" he asks flatly, and something in his voice tells me that he's just itching to find another reason to strangle Michael.

"He wanted to know what I was going to do about…" I wave a hand in frustration. "About being a motherfucking princess of a motherfucking nation I don't want. And Ogden… God, Emilio. He hinted that Ogden was the one that shot… shot _him_."

Emilio falters for only a half second. "No… oh, no."

"He hinted that it might've been Theobella," I whisper, staring up at his ceiling. "That Ogden fell to the same thing that caused Bryon's downfall. And – and he knows about Raffe, Emilio, oh my God, he knows about Raffe. He doesn't think he can trust Raffe and he knows everything and he knew me and – oh, my God."

"Hush, hija," Emilio croons, stroking at my hair. "Calm down. Calm down. Did he try to hurt you?"

"No… but Emilio, how did he know all that? How could he possibly…?"

"When Bryon taught me about all of the angels," Emilio says grimly, "there were none he spoke of with more respect than Michael. He observes, Penryn. He applies a warrior's mindset in many different manners. Do not let that spook you – it was foolish, to think that we could deceive him."

"But he knows about Raffe – what if he knows about you, too?"

"I am not much of a threat," Emilio reasons. "He has more important things to worry about than Titaniel's cripple. And Ogden…" He sighs, pressing his good hand to his face and mumbling soft, foreign words beneath his breath. "That makes such terrible, terrible sense."

"Do you think…?"

"I'm certain, now that Michael brings it up." Emilio sides his hand down his nose a little bit, peeping at me over the bridges of his fingers. "Remember the direction Ogden staggered? Directly from where the bullet came. And our little friend has been suspiciously quiet lately, no?"

"Right," I say quietly. "So, what now?"

He shrugs lopsidedly. "We do the best we can. If we can get proof, we can probably eliminate any chance Ogden has at winning over the people. For now? We cower indoors and under the safety of the Dragon King's wife – no idiot would come here."

"Oh – Audiat." I frown. "Shouldn't she be getting the title of Nephilim Queen, then? Not me?"

Emilio taps his fingers on my arms in a repetitive rhythm. "Her title was always honorary. Nobody wants a she-angel running a Nephilim country. It doesn't work like that."

"Right, right," I amend, hiding my disappointment. "So… for now… we do nothing?"

"We let the shit finish hitting the fan," Emilio sighs. "Because it's really, really hitting the fan. More than likely, that's why Michael contacted you. He's desperate. It was some incredibly bad luck for him to accidentally kill Bryon – possessed or not, people loved him. The angels have been _suffering_."

"Yeah?" I snuggle closer to him. "How so?"

"Mmm. Giant bear things the size of the Eifel Tower attacking Russia. Huge fish things jumping from the water to snap up angels whole every time they cross bodies of water. Large squirrel things wreaking general havoc. Things like that. Europe, Africa, and most of Asia are now angel-free."

"But not America?"

Emilio shakes his head. "Both South and North America are filled to the brim with all the relocated angels. We're far enough from the conflict that it's not as evident, but people are angry."

"And the angels?"

"Blaming each other." Emilio smirks dryly. "You know, it's almost like Bryon knew what he was doing, guiding Raphael's political tactics as he did – it was easy for your boyfriend to slip the lie that the Nephilim had spread from Africa. Now they're all like middle schoolers, blaming each other for sleeping with people and causing this outbreak. Honestly, we could probably stand back and watch them kill each other now."

"That's… good?"

"That's good," he confirms, giving me a quick squeeze. "However… hija, do you have anywhere else to go? Because there is a nurse with clicky-heels approaching the door."

I open my mouth, spluttering out a quick, "Um, Hugo –"

_Knock, knock, knock._

"Hugo is good." Emilio nudges me gently. "Get out of my bed, you little rascal. She's going to change the bandages on my wing… and eye… and I don't want you to see."

"I don't care," I say, but I swing my legs over the edge of the hospital cot and shakily get to my feet. He steadies me, but his hand slips from my back the moment I'm balanced, balling into a fist.

"Come in, wing lady!" he roars, spooking me a bit. "Penryn," he says, softer, more teasing, "I love you, hija, but you need to leave. It's bad enough you're offering to keep me around like a pathetic old dog that needs nothing more than a bullet through the head. I cannot stand doting. Shoo."

"Okay, okay, Mr. Tough Guy," I laugh, throwing my hands into the air as the nurse enters. "Lemme know if you ever need a hand to hold, okay?"

"I offer the same thing, hija. Shoo. You bother me. Ugh."

I turn to the nurse, a different one than before, and waggle a fingera t her. "Make sure you hit his wounds a couple of time on accident."

"Shove her into the syringe tray!" Emilio pipes up from behind me.

"Poor alcohol all over his cuts!"

"Give her cuts!"

"That's enough, you too," the nurse angel says sternly, shuffling with her wings in irritation. Her hazel eyes fix boringly on me. "You found your way down here, you can find your way out. Goodbye."

"Right, right, right." I sneer at Emilio as I stride out the door. "I hope she gives you an infection."

"I hope you have a lovely day!" he calls in an aggressive tone of voice as I slip from the sterile room and into the hallway. I hope he can hear me laughing through the door – I think he can, because he lets out a hearty guffaw, much to the dismay of the nurse.

Annoyed, the nurse slams the door shut, shooting one last scalding glare towards me. I stick my tongue out petulantly at the closed door, almost wishing for the standoffish angel that'd guided me down here. Sighing, I turn towards the hallway.

It's almost empty. The doors are all closed, this little private wing, far from the public's eye, except for one other. Curiosity gets the better of me – knowing very well that I should keep my nose safely in my own business, I creep towards the room, nudging the door completely open and pausing, hesitant, in the doorway.

Curiously, I plod into the room, peering around the corner. There's not much, it's even more boring than Emilio's room aside from a few bouquets of colorful flowers on the beside, and…

And…

…Oh.

My breath is stolen, punched from my lungs like I'd been struck.

He lies so still, so eerily still. His eyes do not flutter behind his eyelids. His hands cup the sheets. His shoes, immaculate and clean of dirt, rest neatly upon the bed, still on his feet. His wings, black, jagged, and ugly, curl around his arms in a manner I suppose is comfortable for sleep.

Weakly, I swallow. "Lucius…?" I croak.

He doesn't stir.

And I realize that he has a bizarre sort of peace to him, lying there quietly, slumbering like a baby. His eyelashes are pale as milk, but long, very long. The hair normally swept from his face dangles in tangled disarray, but somehow, it makes him all the more human. In the silence, I can hear the soft _whoosh_ of his breathing. It's weirdly cute.

The light is soft. It sways languidly from the shadows of the flickering lightbulb.

Without fully realizing what I'm doing, I drift into the room and sit down on the bench beside him. When my brain catches up with my actions, I can't think of a reason to move. The seat is soft, cushioned, and molded, probably meaning that I'm not the only one who's sat by his bedside. A faint scent of lemons and flowers clings to the air.

It's so… peaceful. Lucius isn't warm. He doesn't stir in his sleep. Nothing escapes his lips. There's something so incredibly serene about him. About his chiseled cheekbones, so sharp, so lifted, obscuring and uglying his face.

The only noise is our breathing. And I love it. I love the quiet. I love his calming presence. Drifting into peaceful thoughtlessness, I close my eyes, leaning forward ever so slightly…

"Oh." I start violently at a new voice in the room, nearly dropping off the bench. "I didn't realize anyone actually came in to see him. Do you want me to wait, or…?"

Hastily, I whip around, springing up from the chair. I'm not sure why exactly it is that my heart throbs just slightly, pounding as if I'd been caught stealing treats from a cookie jar, but the guilt and shame still wells up from somewhere deep inside. It's almost immediately replaced by a sense of curiosity and hesitance as I study the figure in the doorway.

It's a face I've only seen in dreams before – an ugly, gnarled sort of face, as if when it'd been sculpted, someone had run up and pinched and smudged the clay. It sags in places it shouldn't and lifts to an unnatural degree in others. Still, in deep, sunken sockets, kind eyes glitter. Clawed paws nervously fiddle with an overflowing bouquet of blue violets and geraniums.

"N-no, sorry, I was just…" I feel my cheeks flush with heat. "I… I've just never seen him look so peaceful."

The demon studies me slowly. "You're the one who appeared in my brother's mental world, aren't you? I beg your pardon, what was your name?"

"Penryn." I blush redder. "Penryn Young. How do you know about…?"

"About your little trip to Lucius's fairyland?" His ugly lips twitch in a smile. "My brother was perplexed by it. He simply wouldn't shut up about you and your below-average mental strength puncturing his hull. I'm Luther, by the way. Grand Prince of Hell."

"Um, I'm… slight Princess of the Nephilim?" I frown, feeling strangely more at ease with the Grand Prince of Hell than I had with Michael. "I don't know, it's all… very complicated. So, like, why hasn't he woken up yet?"

Luther shrugs, shyly drifting further into the room. "He probably just doesn't want to. I don't blame him. It's sort of crappy, everything that's going on. …I wish he would, though. I miss him."

"So…" I bite at my lip anxiously, glancing down at Lucius's peaceful face, then to Luther's terribly deformed one. "You two were close, then? Really close?"

Luther hesitates for a moment longer – then, visibly gaining courage and squaring his shoulders, he strides over towards me, gently sets the bouquet down on the nightstand beside his brother, and sinks down to the bench beside me.

"What do you want to know?" Luther asks quietly, his tone soft and gentle, gaze fixed on Lucius.

"A… a few things." Awkwardly, I sit down beside him, feeling more clumsy than usual beside the demon. "Are all those other bouquets from you, too?"

He nods several times, lips quirking. "Lucius was the inventor of the flower language, so I made sure to hide little messages in each one that he could understand when he awoke. Gloryflowers, Kennedia, white lilacs – he'll understand the message. It should help… lessen the blow of Bryon's demise for when he awakens." Luther's voice is pained. "A reminder that a few people living in this world still love him."

I gnaw at my lip, a surge of guilt hitting me again. "I'm sorry. If you want to be alone, I can…"

"No, it's fine." Luther smiles at me, his eyes glittering kindly. "He'd never let anyone know it, of course, stoic bastard, but hearing that you came by to visit him… might just bring him to tears with happiness. He has the worst insecurity complex."

"Him?" My eyebrows cock up. "Are we talking about the same demon?"

Luther chuckles, shaking his head. "It's hard to believe, I know, with the way he acts most of the time. But we were raised in a reality where you either were sharp as nails or you were ground up for glue. And… well… not many people realize what a damaged child he truly is."

"I'm being honest when I say that I really can't picture that, at all."

He tilts his head to one side, staring at me in fascination. "You saw him in the fairyland he constructed, didn't you?"

My shoulders roll in a shrug. "Only briefly. …Why? What can you tell me about that place?"

"It's an entire world." Luther stares through the curtains, smiling to himself, eyes lost in distant memories. "An entire beautiful world, built from sorrows and frustrations with the world he was given. He could not change the world. He could not make it beautiful. And so he sculpted it again."

"I have no idea what that means. Can you… elaborate?" Bashfully, I rub my hands together, staring intently down at them. "I'm really starting to get curious about Lucius's… whole story."

Luther hesitates for a second, glancing from me to his sleeping brother. Slowly, slowly, a smile spreads over his lips.

"You seemed to see a very, very small snippet of this world of Lucius's. It really is another world – his mother was a fourth-blood Nephilim, so he has the same blood as Theobella. Did you know this?"

I furrow my brow. "No, actually, no – wait. Does that mean that he's… also a god-thing?"

"Yes." Luther smiles sideways at me. "And he's quite a remarkable one. From an early age, Lucius constructed this – this other world. This perfect world, a heaven, a sanctuary within his own mind. Our simple thoughts are flat and boring and simple – we remember a smell or think of an image, but they do not coexist, do not take upon them the depth of Lucius's world. And that is what you must think. Your thoughts, so simple and shallow, and the universe, so deep… so complex… residing inside his mind.

"It started as an escape route for him. On good days, I would get invited to play in a simple green field, reveling in the freedom we were granted. It wasn't real in the traditional sense, and yet, it _was_ – little eight-year-old Lucius and I would endlessly run through fields of sweet-grass with the sun warm on our backs and it was all in his mind, and it was beautiful.

"As he grew, it grew with him. Now… now, Penryn, it's simply beautiful. It's an entire thriving ecosystem. When I say that… I mean that it's as real as real can be. It's no longer in his mind, but on another plane of existence – whether that plane is his mind or not, I don't know. It's… it's gorgeous, Penryn."

He leans back, sighing, rolling his eyes closed and smiling happily to himself. The air moves through his lungs in loud sucks and wheezes.

"Have you ever read a book," he murmurs quietly, "where you read about someplace that you've been before, but author obviously hasn't? A place where the author spruces it up and makes it seem oh-so-falsely grandiose and majestic, and you just know that they're full of it? Each of the places in Lucius's world are like that – so pristine and beautiful and perfect that you have to wonder if what you're feeling is truly real, if your eyes have betrayed you.

"There are oceans where the water is clear as glass, all the way to the very bottom miles and miles beneath you, where the coral is vividly colorful and the seaweed pulses and fluctuates with florescent light. There are wild, free waves crashing upon rocks as jagged and rugged as blunt blades. Windswept Irish landscape after beautiful Iceland terrain will go on as far as the eye can see, like a carpet of surreally beautiful green, only broken by clusters of trees and craggy boulders. Mountains rise from the earth as purple majesties, the snow dusting over their crowns powdery and perfect and awesome.

"In the very center of the world is a forest, the only forest there is, and it puts the Redwoods to shame. It is called the Orchard, and truly, there is no place better than on heaven or on earth. The air is so pure it's like tasting the failed potential of our world. I have seen trees so large that if you were to hollow them out, a four lane highway could easily run down the center. The soft, plush ground is blanketed with moss and speckled with bushes carrying the juiciest, most refreshing berries one has ever tasted in clusters along their spines. Animals the likes of which I've never seen walk about in pairs, unique and wonderful and free wander about, unafraid of predators that are never to prey upon them. At the tops of the trees, vines covered with luscious-petaled flowers and sweet fruits wind around thick branches wide enough for one to walk across, and over-crossing one another like sidewalks through the canopies. And no matter the time of day, thousands upon thousands of fireflies with golden lights bob around and sway, following you in peaceful, ambling swarms.

"In the very center is a tree – a willow, to be precise, a willow without a precise variety. It is not a Weeping Willow, nor a French Willow, nor a Water Willow. But it is massive and black, such a very dark black. Sometimes, you hear someone singing softly, or whispers created by the tendrils sweeping against one another. At the base in a very particular spot are two graves, side by side, honoring where Lucius buried his birth-mother and step-father after their deaths at the foot of a willow tree. It's the very heart of the universe, so complex and filled with life, and you can feel it, feel the beat of its pulse through you. And that world, Penryn, that world is so very, very beautiful because Lucius poured every essence of his goodness into creating it, carved himself hollow to make it perfect."

Silence hangs in the air, aside from the breathing of the two demons.

"That… that sounds…" I breathe in a slow breath, shutting my eyes. "That sounds like heaven. Literally. If heaven isn't like that… well… I don't want to go to it."

"Heaven… is a lie, actually," Luther says sadly. Noticing the way I snap up, at attention, he shrugs and expands upon it. "The Hall of Memories or whatever you wish to call the final journey people go through before they're 'judged' and sent to 'heaven' or 'hell' is a complete hoax. The memories are used to make things raw, make emotions just as vivid and painful and powerful as they were the days the things happened."

I stare at him in horror, the icy fist in my chest clenching. "…No."

He bows his head. "Once the soul has suffered… it is absorbed. By Theobella."

"That…" I breathe in shudderingly, a raw knot of disbelief and hopelessness yanking at my gut. "That can't be true."

Luther's sigh is laced with tears. "It's terrible, isn't it? She's built up an entire culture on the belief that heaven is waiting for them, giving them hope to continue fighting, only to… to gobble them up when they're at their weakest. That poor Black Wolf, forced to shuttle soul after soul to their death…" He shakes his head. "And of course, no one would believe the Devil telling them that heaven was a lie. She's so clever. So evilly clever."

"That's…" I cradle my head in my hands, a thick, gnawing bundle of horror, of dread, growing scratchier in my throat. "That's terrible. Oh, God. But… it makes such awful sense, too. She feeds off of emotion. Our entire lives are… oh, Jesus Christ. We're… we're all fucked, aren't we?"

"No," Luther says sadly. "Not all of us. It's part of the reason Lucius built his world, you know. His perfect world. He was… so upset with the thought that heaven was a lie, when we first figured out that the souls were being devoured. He'd always dreamt of a perfect place. So instead of dreaming, he set out to make. I must admit, I am jealous of you Wives."

"…What?"

"Well, your souls belong to him, correct?" Luther turns his wide-eyed and innocent gaze upon me. "When you die… you're not allowed to be absorbed if you don't want to. He always gives you a choice. Live life for eternity in his perfect world, live again in the body of a hellhound to watch over those you love and at least grant them a decent life, or simply fade. I am jealous of your ability to live forever in a true heaven."

"As a bald dog-thing?" I laugh bitterly, any semblance of happiness I'd maintained souring. "That's my life, isn't it? It's either live until I become god-food or a god-pet. There's no way out of it. I'm going to be an ugly dog-thing."

Luther stares at me for a few seconds. "…Have you ever seen a full grown hellhound, Penryn?"

I hesitate – the hellhound Lucius has scooped from the earth had been very ugly, but newborn, and disgusting. "…No?"

"Then don't be so quick to pass judgment." Luther's lips twitch into a smile. "I've always been an ugly creature, so hideous even the light of day shies away from my face, but before he was cursed, Lucius was… beautiful. In every regard. He was gorgeous, a perfect specimen, a paragon of life. He bitterly despised having beauty stolen from him, and so he sought to create it. The hellhounds are shaped in the image of who he used to be… and yes, they're not perfect, but they are… imperfectly perfect."

"Still." I lean into my knuckles, trying to keep the tears from sprouting. "Why am I even fighting if that's all that's waiting for me? A life separate from everyone else? No matter how beautiful it is… I don't want that."

Luther is silent for a very, very long time. I sense him contemplating my words, figuring out a response. Somewhere, I know it isn't right to dump my frustration upon him, but I can't talk to Emilio about this, or Hugo, and definitely not Raffe. Talking to him, ranting to him… it's refreshing.

"It's especially wonderfully at night," he says quietly at last, and, as much as I want to cut him off and snap that I don't care, I do, and I listen intently to his words as they roll fluidly off his tongue.

"It's different than in the day because foliage grows from the ground and covers everything in glowing beauty, like Bryon's flowers. The lightning bugs disappear, replaced instead by black butterflies, the ones with purple highlights as large as watermelons, those with pink large as Labrador retrievers. You don't ever feel tired. Crystalline pools with their overflowing waterfalls blossom with lilypads, and spots on the backs of the koi fish shimmer metallically. The moon is always so much closer than it seems, and the stars… the stars are so close, and so bright, so amazingly bright. And if you fly high enough…"

He hesitates, glancing at me.

Petulantly attempting to disguise my interest, I gesture for him to continue.

"If you fly high enough, you can soar up to the stars and find that they are little orbs of light floating in thick black mist. You can cup their cold fire in your hands and peer down at them, their peculiar flickering ambiance. They hover between your palms, and, although you're not really able to touch them, you can carry them around and mix them up. And if you look close enough, you can see thousands of planets and meteors and asteroids and comets swirling around the little star in your hands, and you just…

"Just…

"At night, there is this sense of placid clarity. You see what he sees every day at night, every moment, and that's what truly makes his world so special – you know how everything connects. You know that even though a note may be played only once in a song, it still needs to be hit correctly and fully, else it won't ever be correct. You understand that a paragraph is incomplete and terrible and unbalanced if it's missing a single word. You see how, even though a sparrow may live the shortest life of all, it is just as important as a panther that ends many.

"And the stars, they give you such a lovely sense of perspective, holding another universe in the palm of your hand. I can only assume that there are thousands of worlds and that Lucius has painstakingly designed every one like the God he is someday to be. And you see this entire world in your hand, all this person knows, and the thousands of stars floating around you, and you… you just realize the infinity and finity of everything. How the world must seem so big to these tiny creatures, about how they may never think of someone larger, and the things that may inhabit their stars, and the larger giants that may be looking down upon us and thinking about the same lovely, lovely things. Your problems suddenly seem… not silly, never silly, but fixable – because surely, surely, if the world we live in is so vast and complicated and _beautiful_ then everything will of course be okay in the end.

"It's just… it's incredibly eye-opening." Luther smiles to himself, staring down at his palms, and a tear splats against the light-red skin there. "I told Lucius about it once. I told him about the lovely infinity and finity and the complexity and beauty and how we are all connected and equally important and unimportant. He only smiled and said that these wonderful, glorious things I was seeing were what he saw every day in every moment. Can you… can you even understand that, Penryn?"

Luther looks out the window for a few seconds, a few more tears running down his cheeks.

"Lucius has been tormented and beaten and has never, ever lived a day in his life since he was turned without getting spat on or punched at or shoved into a wall as he passes by his inferiors, and yet… he is capable of such beauty. From thousands and thousands of years of viciousness, he turned it around and… he gave us all something beautiful. A world to live in that would not be cruel. That would not be harsh. He saw all the evil in our world and gave us a way to escape it all, and to see what we truly were and were not. And I have never seen such clarity. Never. Not once. Yet here you sit beside me, and… and you try to tell me that it is a curse to be gifted this infinity?"

He grows angrier, curling his fists.

"That his ingeniousness is a hex upon you? That it's wrongful for him to only offer you a heaven? Do you realize how selfish you sound?"

"Look…" I scratch at the back of my neck. "That sounds amazing, but you know what? Look at it under my lens. He might be a philophoser, but that doesn't excuse anything. A beautiful perspective on life doesn't equate a beautiful person. He killed my dad. He's keeping me from Raffe." I ignore Luther's snort at that. "I can't just forget that. Maybe he's had a sucky life, but so have I. Kinda because of him."

Luther chews at his lip dubiously. "Maybe I'm being impartial to Lucius, but… do you blame him for your father?"

"What?" I ask, staring at him dumbly. "He killed my goddamned dad. He explained it to me." I shiver, recalling the silky-soft touch of his cold fingers beneath my jaw. "In great detail."

"Your father and your mother were both hunting hellhounds," Luther says gingerly. "Hellhounds – people. People that could've committed suicide if they'd wanted to transition into another life. The first time, your father was resurrected."

"The second time," I mutter darkly, "he wasn't."

"Hmm, debatable," Luther hums, nodding a few times. "The second time, he was also slaughtering more hellhounds. He'd gotten a just warning – I'd say death and then resurrection is a just warning, wouldn't you? – and continued onwards all the same."

"Why would he kill the hellhounds if he didn't have a reason to?" I snap churlishly. "He must've known something, something we didn't – maybe he was trying to help them –"

"Or maybe he didn't know anything," Luther says, a bit more steel in his tone. "Maybe he was under the same misconceptions that you were. Thought he was giving them an end."

"I can't forgive Lucius for that!" I turn my head away from the demon, my lips pricked in either a snarl or a grimace, I can't tell which. "I don't care if he has a stupid other world and it's pretty! He kills people!"

"Don't bring that into this, Penryn," Luther warns.

"It's not right for him to try and cage people to some sort of fantasy world of his," I persist. "It's unhuman, and I don't want your half-ass excuses for reasons that it's not monstrous!"

Luther's eyes boil with an unfamiliar rage, weary and aggressive and terrible. "He doesn't force anything, Penryn. If you want your soul absorbed when you die, I guarantee you can have that. Some people like the idea of heaven."

Alarm bells ring at the primal fury building in Luther's eyes, the way the long nails tipping each gnarled finger become more and more clawlike tunneling my vision. Time to back the hell out of this situation. If there's one thing today really does not need, it's a furious Luther.

"I – I'm sorry." Nervously, I stare down at Lucius's peaceful sleeping face, his eyes rolling in his eyelids with dreams. "Didn't mean to make you angry. Just… frustrated. With everything."

Luther is silent. His eyes rove over my face for a very long time, studying every nook and cranny, searching for something yet remaining unsatisfied. Quietly, he says, "You and Lucius have a lot in common, then."

"Huh?"

"Frustration with everything." Luther turns his gaze back to his brother. "He always used to get so upset at the world. He'd start screaming for the hell of it, yelling at someone up in the sky. A sister? Something. He still does, sometimes, but… less so." To my astonishment, his voice cracks. "He's gotten so much more reserved."

"Reserved?" Frowning, I glance at Lucius's sleeping face, feeling the anger coiled tightly in the pit of my stomach dissolve with the peace of his expression. "How do you say that? He seems everything but reserved."

"True, but he's more… sharp." Luther holds his head in his hands. "So self-conscious now. So many careful boundaries between him and the world. You may have trouble coming to terms with it, Penryn, but he is still… still human. And… and he _hurts_ so much."

"He has a funny way of showing it."

Luther rumbles out a coarse laugh. "That's very true," he agrees, chuckling. "Put yourself in his shoes, though. Hated so… so _wretchedly_ for what he is, what he has the reputation of, with so few thinking of how much good he's doing. No one cares about him. Who he is. At first, he was himself, believing that people would see that he was just a good kid despite his deformities, but… eventually, he stopped trying."

"Oh?" I hope it doesn't sound too much like I'm fishing, because that's totally what I'm doing. "What do you mean?"

"Remember when you knew nothing of Lucius other than that he was a ruthless dealmaker?" Luther questions quietly. "There was no desire there to learn anything about him. He was a monster you were trying to spurn into doing your bidding. He's… grown so tired of being seen like a monster. So tired of trying to be looked at as anything else. At first, he just tried… to end it." Luther rubs his gnarled hands together, lower lip quivering. "You… your human eyes can't quite pick up on it, especially with his white skin, but he's got scars, Penryn."

Gingerly, Luther takes his brother's wrist in his hand and slides his sleeve back, tracing along lines that I cannot discern.

"He didn't want to live anymore." Luther's voice breaks. "And… it's such a terrible thing, when a person wants to die but they cannot. I almost wish… I almost wish he'd been able to go through with it. He never would've been scarred the way he is. Would've died with memories of happiness still close to his heart, instead of… distant… twisted…"

"He can't die, can he…?" I murmur quietly. "So… any suicide attempts… would stay attempts? It wasn't too bad, then?"

Luther croaks out a soft sound. "I found him one day in a puddle of his own blood – it used to be red, you know, and each time he died, it's grown darker and darker."

I tilt my head to one side upon hearing that.

"It was a mix of crimson and obsidian and – he was just sitting in the middle of it… crying… dumbly asking over and over again, 'Why can't I just die? Why can't I die? Why can't even I kill myself?' …Eternity is such a terrible thing. I almost… I almost wished he could. Die then. Save what little sanity he has left instead of just further implanting the image of himself as a monster."

I stare at the pale expanse of smooth skin, dumbly examining the black webbing of veins to try and catch a glimpse of the scars. "…I didn't know… but he's got people that appreciate him, doesn't he?" Slowly, I lift my head, meeting Luther's eyes. "He's got you?"

"Lucius does not love me anymore." A sob catches in Luther's throat. "You are aware of the concept of the rebirth of the five-eights, yes? How they leave something behind in order to be reborn?"

"Yeah," I whisper, a prickling mixture of fascination and repulsion churning in my gut.

He turns to me, eyes prickling with tears. "For so long… when our father would beat him to death… for saving the life of a dog doomed for death, for speaking out for a lowly demon that would otherwise be a slave to Satan's wishes, for his unmanly love of beauty. And he would… he would cling to me. I would be his rock. And when… when it happened…"

Luther looks away, trembling.

"When he finally acted out too much on my advice, and… _embarrassed_ the Devil in a social gathering… and when he had this terrible, terrible curse placed on him… he saw me… just watching… and he has not felt an ounce of affection towards me since. I watched my brother die that day. What returned, with these eyes and these hooked wings, it's not completely him." Luther turns to me miserably. "Like your sister. Remember… remember how you felt when you got her back from the aerie?"

My heart staggers in my chest. "Y-yes."

"That's how I feel." Luther looks upon Lucius, and a fat tear slides down his greasy cheek. "Same inside. Deep inside. But… damaged. So very, very damaged."

Damaged.

It hits me like a slap in the face. My throat clogs – I turn to Lucius with a different lens, my mouth dropping open in a pained O as I gaze down at his long eyelashes, his smooth cheeks. At last, the point it seems the universe has been trying to prove is driven home.

_Damaged._

The word drives itself like a pick of ice through my heart.

I shake my head, ignoring the prickle of tears in the corner of my eyes as so many things become so very, very clear.

He hadn't asked for a charge when he'd fixed Paige. He'd done it simply, with ease, without even blinking. What I'd perceived as a hook to draw me in further had been a desperate attempt to let someone else out of this tricky net, this horror he's been cursed with. And then later, helping Paige wander safely throughout the building, protecting her from Black Wolf's freakout, like a little guardian angel –

And here is Luther before me. Desperately clinging to the hope that their sibling doesn't feel abandoned as it seems, praying with all their heart that their beloved one is still in there somewhere, somewhere that they can be retrieved from. Paige was a vegetarian, but then could only eat meat or starve; Lucius would never harm a soul, but then his hand was forced.

Luther speaks up again. "Just like Paige, there's… a way he can be healed. But… Penryn, he's been reborn forty-three times that I know of. And every time…" His voice cracks. "He grows stronger. His fragment of his old self grows smaller and smaller, and his forced outer shell becomes harder. Thicker. …There's a way to break the curse, like any fairytale, but…" He buries his head in his hands. "I don't know how. I don't know how, and I just want my brother back."

Softly, I put a hand on his shoulder, feeling his chest bob with silent sobs. Though I try, I can't make myself look away from Lucius's eerily still chest and wonder if he's still breathing.

"I just want to play cards with him again." Luther leans into my touch. "I want to hold him on my lap. I want to see his blush. I want to look into his eyes again. Is that too much to ask?"

"The universe sucks," I lament, rubbing comforting circles onto his bony shoulder. He leans into my touch, perhaps seeking solace from another being, releasing his pent-up frustration and despair. My heart aches a little – I could use with a shoulder to cry on myself.

"His cards," Luther whispers in a heavy tone. "His cards… There's fifty three of them, you know; a birthday gift from Bryon, handpainted with tiny murals. Same deck he had when our father cursed him. Except he removed the King of Hearts. Fifty-three. It was a picture of him, you realize – an adult version of him, smiling, with lovely eyes and a pink blush. I still don't know where he keeps it."

I shake my head. "That's… I'm sorry, Luther. Oh, Luther. It'll be okay."

He sniffles pathetically, rubbing at his nose. "I don't know what I'm going to do, he's just so –"

"Luther," Lucius purrs, "if your hand so much as advances an inch closer towards Penryn's ass, I swear I will cut it off and wear it around my neck. Are we understood?"

A pulse of electricity jolts through me. Stiffening, jumping both backwards and away from Luther, I turn to Lucius, the man I had assumed to be caught in a very deep sleep. I flick a glance towards his face before disciplining myself away from the treachery hidden beneath porcelain lids to find that he had barely even moved – I catch the slightest glimmer of onyx in the corner of my eye to signify that the Prince's eyes have opened.

A glance behind me reveals that Luther's hand is indeed creepily close to my butt, frozen in fear as he stares at his now-conscious brother. Faintly, I recall Bay's warnings about the older son of Satan being a bit grabby, and I pull myself onto my feet, slowly backing away from the charged situation.

My eyes dart back and forth. I wet my lips nervously. Who to trust? The kind pervert or the well-meaning devil?

Very slowly, Lucius curls up, rising like Count Dracula from a coffin. He stretches his inky black wings, the razors slotting out at every possible angle scratching and scraping and plinking against one another. He plucks a single pink rose from a bouquet on the table as he settles on the balls of his feet, slipping it into the pocket of his jacket, and tucks the deck of cards away. Luther, still stiff, shies away from his brother.

"I suppose, then, that what I feel now is true?" Lucius drawls in a tone that's… too gravelly, too heavy. If I hadn't known him better, I would've said that he sounded furious. "What other reason would Penryn be curled by my bedside? The Nephilim King is dead?"

I make a vague choking noise that almost sounds like a confirmation. Mentally, I applaud myself for that.

Sighing slowly, Lucius adjusts his cuff links, lips twisted downwards in a fierce scowl. "Of course. And I have a theory on who to blame."

His gaze flickers up to me – I can feel its scorching heat, the rage halfway hidden by his calm demeanor, but when he speaks, his voice is surprisingly soft.

"Penryn, you should get some rest," Lucius advises quietly. "I don't know how long my brother's been blathering on to you, but you look exhausted. I know Audiat has some excellent tea to help unwind the brain's nerves."

I bite at my lip. Two options are presented before me – nod and do as I'm told, or grill him, just slightly, with all the questions buzzing about like pestersome flies, growing thicker and heavier as the day progresses.

"…Is it true?" I ask in a small voice. "All that Luther's said about… your heaven?"

Irritation flickers across Lucius's features. Growling low in his throat, he shakes his head crisply, lips bared in a ferocious snarl. "No, Madam Young, it most certainly is not. If it's all the same to you – and it is – I have to leave you now. Good day, Madam Young."

"Wait!" I lurch forward ever so slightly. "Can I… maybe go there again, sometime? Just to… escape?"

He half-pivots towards me, the searing gaze of one dark eye trained on my again. When he speaks, his voice is cold and harsher than usual, like the sound of a blade hitting ice. "_Good day_, Madam Young. Must I repeat myself again?"

"N-no, she got your message!" Luther stutters, coming to my rescue. "Don't worry. You're understood. We all understand."

Lucius's frown becomes more irate, and he rolls his eyes, turning his back on us both and striding towards the door. "Remember, Luther," Lucius lilts, "my threat still stands. I will not hesitate to carve your balls off with a rusty spoon."

Turning with almost a theatric swirl of his jacket, Lucius prowls out the door. I flatten myself against the wall as he approaches, repeating Luther's wondrous words in my head – how can such beauty come from something so terrifying? I feel his gaze fix on me very briefly, boring a hole into my skull. Why must someone holding such a vicious past be so very, very vicious?

At last, Lucius disappears through the doorway, his heels clicking on the marble floor. I watch him go, watch the exaggerated patience in his stride, the way he seems to just itch with latent fury. A shiver tickles its way down my spine at the sight of the oily black barbs along his wings standing on end, like a cat's bristling hackles.

"Keep your head low, Penryn," Luther whispers quietly, sounding small and terrified, like a mouse that's just been eye-to-eye with an eagle. "Very, very low."

I turn to him with a frightened question in my eyes.

He shakes his head, biting at his upper lip with his underbite. "The last time I saw him with that expression… it was when a chancellor from the days of old drugged him up so that he'd be oblivious to the raping of one of his wives, a wife that struck a deal specifically to be safe from that abuse."

I stare after him, listening to the fading click-click-click of his heels. "What happened to the chancellor?"

"He released a plague upon the American continent and wiped out the entire human population out of hatred for one man. That's why the Nephilim were the only creatures living on it for so long. …Dear Lord, Penryn, if you value your life, keep your head so very, very low."

* * *

**Lucius is pissed off as fuck. And everybody is going to know it, too. **

**His character has been doing his own thing until now – his own agenda, his own goals. They're going to be revealed. **

**Also. Yet another hint dropped about who he truly is. And you know what? The secret? It's not that he's a god. It's not that his fantasy world is actually a world. It's something so much more. **

***quiet squeal***

**POLL: Should Penryn or shouldn't Penryn keep Emilio by her side? He's a lame guard, but he's also very trustworthy… which should she prioritize?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	70. Chapter Sixty-Nine

**There was an inquiry about Lucius's height last chapter. He's five feet seven incbes. Average height. In other words, compared to the massive pillars around him, he's a midget. **

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Nine**

"I'm glad you're awake." Hugo nuzzles into my hair, seeming pleased that I'd settled in between his legs, happy to share his computer screen with me. "Was worried you'd never wake up again."

"Sorry 'bout that," I apologize, voice cracking a little bit. I squeeze my eyes shut. "Almost wish… I'd stayed asleep. You know?"

"Psh, no you don't," Hugo scoffs, his mouth tickling my scalp. "Don't be stupid. You'd miss more goofy Raffryn fanart."

I sneak a peek towards the tumblr screen. "Are you still looking at that mermaid stuff? Come on, Hugo."

"What?" He chuckles, wrapping an arm around me and scrolling with one hand. "I'm trash, I know. But hey, you should see some of the stuff about me and –"

He chokes a little bit. I give him an awkward backwards squeeze, snuggling closer to his chest. His arms hesitate for only a second before strangling me against him.

"Show me your stupid Raffryn stuff, huh?" I coax. "Lemme see whatever stupid fanfictions –"

"Ha, no," he laughs dryly, cutting me off with a shake of his head. "No fanfictions. _That's_ emotionally scarring. There's one that gives me an existential crisis as soon as I open up the second chapter."

"Okay… fanart?"

"Less emotional scarring than what you suggested," he agrees. "How you holdin' up, Penny Poo? Heard from Paige or anything?"

"Literally, I woke up, like, two hours ago," I snort, breathing in his smell – it's less of its typical coppery tang, more like a mixture of soap and dog. Glancing towards Scruffy, I assume the doggy stench comes from him – noticing my attention, he shifts his head from where it lies on the bed beside Hugo, and opens his mouth in a slight grin. The _thump, thump, thump _of his tail grow slightly louder.

"Oi." Hugo nudges my knee with his, causing the laptop to rock on his lap. "Pay attention to me. Nobody cares about you, do they, Scruffy?" His voice softens. "Nobody likes you! Nobody actually likes you! _Noooobody_ at all!"

Scruffy licks affectionately at Hugo's hand. With a noise of disgust ("Oi, cut that out, you mangy beast!"), he flicks the slobber back into Scruffy's face, leaving the wolf bewildered.

"You and Scruffy both are nasty as fuck," he decrees snobbily, rubbing the last of his wolf's slobber on my sleeve. I can't be bothered to move. "Seriously. Ugh. You're going to give me fleas."

"If I have fleas, I got them from you."

"And I got them from Scruffy!" Hugo cries.

"So you admit you have fleas, then."

He snorts, prodding me in the ribs. "_Noooo,_ I'm saying that if I did, they'd still be from one of you two swine. That's right, I'm talking to you, you literal long-legged son of a bitch."

Scruffy yawns adorably, his little pink tongue flexing in his mouth.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, you little mutt," I coo, tapping him on his black nose. "All of our problems come from you, don't they? Don't they?"

"How dare you cause world hunger, Scruffy-wup!"

"It's all _your_ fault that the angels are here, isn't it, baby?"

"You're the reason that governments failed!"

"I bet those cute little paws knocked down all the barriers protecting humankind! Yes they did! _Yes they did!_"

"Have you been going around killing important members of society? Silly goose!"

For some reason, Scruffy's content with taking our verbal abuse. Maybe it's because he's an animal and has no clue what we're saying. Maybe it's because he knows we both just need an outlet to vent our frustration. Maybe he thinks we've both gone crazy and we need his support no matter our sanity levels.

The conversation between us shifts and molds from topic to topic – it hits riskier subjects from time to time, like Michael's intrusion and accusation, the lack of friends Baelan had that could come to a possible funeral, poor Audiat's state of mind. Most of the time, it hovers on the edge of almost being too light, too carefree, but I think both of us prefer it to the contrary.

Hours slip past. We scroll through a billion tags on Tumblr. I tell Hugo about Lucius's little freak-out, and he informs me that the Prince of Hell has a tumblr url (dontasktherealluciusanything), but hasn't been posting since the apocalypse. He chuckles when I say that I can't imagine that anyone would be actively posting since the apocalypse. The sunlight streaming in through the windows turns from early morning yellow to afternoon gold to evening orange.

At some point, I complain about Hugo's phone, which is buzzing right next to my ribcage. He grumbles a bit, but fishes it from his pocket.

"Oh, hell," he sighs tiredly from behind me. "Shit ain't good, Penryn."

"What?" I peer up at him, comfortably swaddled in his dapper "steampunk" jacket between his legs. "What is it? If I went to sleep now, could I escape it?"

"You really probably shouldn't. Fuck, this is bad. Enjoy your last five minutes of peace."

He refuses to tell me anything else, leaving an acrid tang of dread in the back of my mouth. Unconsciously, my gaze flickers to the doorway, expecting it to be thrown open at any moment.

Five minutes later, powerful knocking nearly slams the door down. Scruffy jumps to his feet with a startled woof, staring at the door and sniffing curiously at the air. Hugo sighs and lifts his ass from the bed to shamble reluctantly towards the doorway, where someone can be heard pacing back and forth loudly, slamming a fist against the wood on each repetition.

I fondle Scruffy's ears curiously, watching the doorway with wide eyes.

The first one to flutter through is Audiat.

She comes in like a fairy, her swirling white dress caked with paint and her hair a frizzy mess. Purple rings circle her dull eyes, and her lips are chapped and cracked. Her gaze fixes on me.

"Hi," I greet, surprised, wondering what she could possibly be doing here. "What are you –"

With a furious squeal, she pounces at me.

The breath is knocked from my lungs as she wraps both arms and legs around my torso and squeezes with all her might. I choke and gasp. Never having thought of Audiat as much of a brawny person was an obvious mistake – the muscles in her slender arms are still pumping with angelic blood, and she grips me tighter than even Raffe has.

"Oh hi, Audiat, how are you?" Hugo asks, patting her on the head nonchalantly, ignoring my state of peril. Audiat responds with a feline hiss, baring her teeth at him.

I suck in a breath and shove against her slightly. She doesn't budge.

"I swear to God Audiat if you kill Penryn I will rip off every one of your feathers."

"I was so worried!" Audiat yowls, throwing me backwards, nearly tipping me off the bed and only catching me by the arms. She drags me up to her so that we're eye to eye. "If you ever, _ever _run off again I will_ wring your neck. _You are the only family I have left!"

"Thanks," Hugo moans, collapsing on the bed beside me melodramatically.

"Audiat was worried about you," a small voice laughs quietly; Josiah peeks his head over the she-angel's shoulder, prying her off of me with gentle hands. "I was, too. We all were."

"With every right!" Miffed, Audiat scales Josiah like she's climbing a tree, perching on his shoulders with her hands around his neck. She glares haughtily down at me, still looking pissed out of her mind. "What do you think you were doing? No one has seen _hide nor hair of you _–"

"Audiat," Josiah says with an awkward laugh. "She looks tired…"

"Tired!? _I'm_ tired! Tired of worrying! Penryn, promise me you will never do that again!"

"I – okay?" I blink a few times, glancing from her to Josiah to Hugo. "What's going on?"

"You are in massive trouble, that's what." My gaze whips around to a shadow created by the folds of the curtains, and the rigid form hidden there in the darkness. Suited, handsome, hair tousled and eyes ablaze, he watches me stiffly, lip curled lividly. Rage rolls off of him in palpable waves.

"Oh – Raffe." My voice softens slightly over his name, and, embarrassed, I clear my throat before starting again. "What's all this about? I – what's going on?"

His eyes narrow menacingly, and his lips curl further. "Someone tell Penryn what's wrong."

"Oh, um." Josiah smiles apologetically at me. "Everyone was worried because we didn't know where you were. People got pretty wound up about it." He breaks off with a giggle, swatting Audiat's tickling hand away from his jawline, mumbling something about keeping her hands to herself.

"By 'people', do you mean Raffe?" I turn to him, scowling. I'd been relatively happy for a time being, stuck in a phase of blissful ignorance of the outside world, and I don't like it being interrupted. "I was literally going to see Emilio for two seconds. The rest of the time, I was here. That so bad?"

It occurs to me briefly that harshness is steeling my words, that my own frustration is poisoning my tone. But almost as quickly as I realize it, I dismiss it. Too long, however, have I been living under someone's thumb – whether it be Michael's or Lucius's or even Bryon's, God rest him. I shouldn't have to tell Raffe where I am every moment of every day, and his reaction to this is unjust; the anger in his aura would be relatable if I told him I'd just had an orgy with his archangel buddies. Not that I'd taken a short walk around the aerie.

"I didn't know where you could were, Penryn," he sneers. "You're so helpless, I don't trust you alone."

It stings, that comment. My ability to handle myself is something he's joked about before, but if he thinks he can walk all over me, he's wrong.

"Going down like it's the Berlin Wall." Hugo plops down on the bed next to me, but I take it upon myself to ignore him.

"I don't need you to babysit me, Raffe." I frown at him, turning my back on the archangel, ignoring the prickle of fear that dances along the nape of my neck, trickling slowly down my spine, like an icy needle being driven through each of my vertebra. "You should seriously stop worrying about me. And I'm not going to apologize for just walking around, okay?"

Raffe harrumphs and scowls at me. "Then I'm not talking to you."

"Fine." I snuggle back up to Hugo's chest, refusing to glance back towards Raffe. "Act like a two-year-old. See if I care."

"Oh, snap, son," Hugo sings, wrapping his arms around me and clicking back onto Tumblr. "The GF just put you down. Oh, but, Penryn, look at this comic, Raffe's – shit. No, that's Raffyon. Scrolling onwards."

"That's not going to happen, ever," I mumble, snuggling a bit closer to Hugo.

Raffe glares at me coldly for a few seconds before storming out of the room and into Hugo's bathroom. I can feel the disapproval rolling off of the boy as he lifts his head to watch my angel, and I have to admit, I don't know what the hell he thinks he's doing.

"What the hell is his problem?" I ask, sighing.

"My problem is that you aren't taking this seriously!" Raffe snarls from somewhere within the bathroom.

"Oh, dear," Audiat sighs. Mournfully, she lifts her hands in the symbol for rock paper scissors, and Josiah quickly accepts. After he wins, she moans melodramatically, and slips off his back. "Raphael, I am coming after you!" She skips over to the bathroom door and slips inside, her lilting call of Raffe's name echoed by the tile flooring. The door inches shut behind her.

"Well, whatever," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. Hugo gives me a quick squeeze, reblogging the silly mermaid Raffe fanart I've seen him fawn over at least twice before. I rest against his shoulder, letting his cinnamon smell wrap me in familiarity and ease.

"Um." Josiah shifts awkwardly.

"Oh, hi." I make an effort to smile friendlily at him, despite the roiling heat in my gut. "Got your note, by the way. Thanks for a little bit of what was going on – I couldn't understand Raffe's at all."

"Yes, well." He fidgets a bit, red eyes trained towards the ground. "I just think… maybe… you should be taking him a bit more serious?"

"Raffe?" I stare at him incredulously. "He's just throwing a fit. He does that every now and then."

Josiah cracks a wry smile. "Ah ha, you really do know Raffe!" he chuckles, tone a bit more open, the tension in his shoulders relaxing.

"Not as good as you, I'm sure." Smiling, I wave him down on the bed. "Sit down, exchange some crazy Raffe stories. I'm sure you've got plenty."

His red eyes widen, and a crooked grin partners the warmth in his gaze. "Oh, trust me, I will," he promises, winking at me. "Archangels are like celebrities – so quirky. You wouldn't believe. But – another time. I – hear me out, okay?"

I grunt in response, feeling that the conversation is going to turn towards everyone's favorite whiny angel.

"Raffe – he was seriously, seriously worried, alright?" Josiah gently sets himself on the bed beside me, resting one warm hand over my own to draw my attention to him. "During the meeting, Michael made an offhand remark about you. Raphael freaked out. He cancelled early, made an excuse, and raced up to his room to find you gone without a trace. I – Penryn, we've spent a good chunk of today tearing this place apart brick by brick searching for you."

"Oh." My voice is slightly smaller. "Why didn't he check here?"

"He did, actually," Hugo pipes up. "Before you trekked your ass up all those stairs. I told Pasty I, Pasty II, and Pigeon-Bat to head down to Emilio, because you seriously love that dude."

"I was there." I turn to Josiah with wide eyes. "I made a short stop in the cafeteria to pick up some leftovers from lunch on my way up, but I went straight from there to here. How did we not run into each other?"

"Oh, hell if I know," Josiah sighs wearily. "Fate hates us, I suppose. We went down there. The Spaniard – Emilio? – was so high on drugs we couldn't get much of a straight answer out of him, but the nurse said that you'd been to see Lucius, and that the both of you had disappeared. That threw Raffe off another tangent of worry. He was going out of his mind, I tell you – we had to drag him away from Michael's door, he was about to knock it down and demand answers."

"Oh." I don't know what else to say. Furtively, I risk a glance towards the door.

"Oh," Josiah agrees. "Just… he's" – his voice gets a little bit louder – "_acting like a little child right now_, but he has good reason." Josiah swipes a thumb on the back of my hand. "I think what he wants to do now is wrap you up in a big hug. But of course, he's too manly to do that. And a bit miffed that you didn't take his worry seriously. Because Michael is a very serious deal."

"I know, I know," I grumble, rubbing my palm against my forehead. "I didn't even think – but I'm not going to apologize."

"Neither is he!" Audiat sings from the other side of the door. Raffe snarls out something unintelligible through the wood.

"Well, who's surprised?" Josiah muses good-naturedly. "Look, Penryn – I'm not saying he deserves an apology. Actually, I'm saying the _exact reverse of that._" He glares towards the bathroom, shaking his head. "But maybe you should just take a moment to look at it from his eyes?"

"Or maybe he should stop pouting like a fucking child," Hugo mutters, incredulity heavy in his voice, "and realize that Penryn can take care of herself."

"I…" I sink a bit in the cover. "I'm not going to apologize for being an adult and actually moving around like a normal human being, but… I realize I should've left a note or something. And I would really, really love a hug…"

Rudely, creaky hinges squeal, and a dark shadow is outlined in the slit the bathroom door by the light behind it. "I am not at all sorry for worrying. Because you get into everything. And there are a lot of dangerous people here. And you should've left me a note. But shouldn't have blown up at you. Even if you deserve it. You're getting a hug whether you want it or not."

Raffe kicks the door open a bit further, scowling at me from the doorway – but the menace no longer reaches his eyes. Blinking a few times, and shaking his head, he strides across the room purposefully, beelining towards me.

"Oh, no sir." I scowl at him teasingly, waggling a finger. "I don't want a hug from you, Feathers. That's what I've got Hugo for."

Groaning gutturally, Hugo lifts a leg high in the air and shoves me beneath it. With a startled squeak, I roll out of the warm nest I'd nestled happily into. I blink in confusion and push myself upright, glancing around at the cold comforter I'd been exiled to, and, suddenly, warm, warm arms.

"You're getting a hug from me whether you want it or not, monkey," Raffe all but growls, tackling me to the comforter. A small whine of protest escapes me, but I giggle and string my arms around his neck. With a tedious sigh and gruff chuckle, he curls around me, pressing one of his almost-kisses to my forehead.

I clutch him tight against me, leaning my head back to brush my lips against his jaw before cuddling back against his chest. A small, stupid smile plays over my face, and it's almost enough to heal the ache still in my heart.

"Oh, my god, not you two," Hugo groans. "Audiat and Jojo, get them off my bed."

"I can't hear you!" Audiat sings, plopping down beside me on the bed and raking her hands through her hair.

"Jojo?" With a touch of dread in his voice, Josiah sighs, shifting his weight awkwardly. "Please, don't tell me that's going to become your thing."

"He calls me Penny Poo," I sympathize, nodding and smiling towards him.

Raffe grunts. "You don't let _me _call you Penny Poo."

I scrunch my nose up and stare at him, but can't keep a serious face for long before I burst into a fit of giggles. He frowns and tilts his head a bit, staring back down at me, and I laugh harder.

"Sorry," I apologize through laughter, "but you've got, like, five chins from this angle."

"Oh, lovely," Raffe snorts, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, lovely. Five lovely chins."

"Affection," Hugo sighs in annoyance. "Get off of my bed, you sickening lovebirds." His socked foot nudges insistently at my hair, prodding at Raffe's forehead. "Ewwww. Heterosexuals. Get off my dash, get out of my life."

"Ewww." I wrinkle my nose, peering up at him. "Homosexuals. God hates gays."

"God hates Penryn."

"God hates you."

"God apparently hates female sheep."

"Shut the actual fuck up, Hugo."

"Love you, Penryn."

"Ewww. Heterosexual."

Hugo growls, slamming the lid of his laptop shut, and tackles me playfully. "I am going to fucking murder you, Penny Poo. Scoot the fuck over, Pigeon-Bat, I'm murdering your asshat girlfriend."

"Sorry, I can't let you do that." Raffe swings out a wing and shoves Hugo off the bed – a startled yelp echoes from beneath the mattress, followed by a growled curse, probably indicating Hugo's fall onto Scruffy.

"That is my fucking bed, dickwad!" Hugo cries, his head appearing over the side, scowling. Beside him appears the very tips of two ears. "Oh, no, _no_, no you don't. Bad dog, no – Scruffy, _no_ –"

He disappears beneath the bed again, laughing and cursing like a sailor. I smile, burying my forehead against Raffe's chest, listening to Scruffy's playful growling. Audiat's weight next to us on the bed barely shifts the springs – her tiny fingers sift through my hair, braiding it gently, then running her hands through it to get rid of the plaits only to begin again.

I find myself dozing again, happy and warm. Lazily, I watch as Hugo drags his laptop off the bed and lounges against Scruffy instead, and as Audiat surrenders my hair to Raffe's gentle caresses and moves to tie Josiah's hair back in various ponytails and tiny braids, brushing it gently. At some point, Ariel drifts in, collapsing on Hugo's loveseat, clad only in a snuggie, her wings covering her ass. I can't find myself bothered to care.

Somewhere inside me, there's a pang of loss. The lump in my throat isn't _quite_ gone. Any thoughts of the man that was once my uncle are severed halfway through their execution. It hurts, Bryon's loss. And it won't stop hurting for quite some time – I know that. But for right now, for this exact moment… it's okay.

Peacefully, I drift off, happy in Raffe's arms.

* * *

I had hoped we would be allowed to see him.

_Blinking a few times, I bolt upright, tingles spreading across my dreamworld body in a not overly pleasant sensation. My eyes, if they can truly be called that, gaze upon a scene that is not wholly unfamiliar – grey stones, roughly cut and dully colored, slotted together to form a long, bleak hallway. I have not been through this particular wing – it's unfamiliar to me, but, honestly, with all the history that this place probably has accumulated, it's unsurprising. _

_Beside me is another unfamiliarity. Audiat, pale and hazy aside from her warm, cherry red eyes, kneels before a stained glass window, her face unreadable. I blink a few times, realizing that the voice I'd heard in my brain hadn't been from Black Wolf, but rather, her. _

_"Um… what?" Awkwardly, I stumble to my feet, clumsily closing the distance between us. "What are you… what?"_

Bryon. _Lifting one white finger, she points towards the stained glass window in front of her brokenly. _Sometimes… the dead are able to cross paths with the living in these halls. Sometimes. We agreed to meet here – the glass where he proposed to me.

_My heart pangs painfully in my chest. "Oh…" I glance fleetingly up at the window, then back down at her. "Oh, Audie. I'm sorry."_

_She shakes her head slowly. _It's nothing I wasn't expecting. It's… rare at the best of times. _ After a pause, she sighs, rising slowly. _Like I said, it's rare. I just let my hopes get too high. I've already said goodbye. I will… I will get over him.

_I cock my head to one side, frowning. "…You said Bryon is walking around here? Like, in his own hallway? …Maybe he's just not here yet."_

Time doesn't work like that around here. _Audiat waves her hand. _It's hard to explain. Ask Blackie about it.

_"Oh." Lost in thought, I stare down the hallway, staring until it fades into grey mist – then, suddenly, "Are you going to forget about him? Bryon, I mean?"_

_Audiat's eyes widen, and she sits in quiet shock for a few moments, before hastily looking away. A shiver runs through her. _Someday… yes… someday I will. Assuming nobody kills me before then… immortality doesn't quiet compute with our brains, Penryn. Only extraordinary people could remember an eternity.

_"Okay." I swallow, but it's much more difficult, and when I blink, my eyes sting. "I… it's okay. I won't forget him. It's… not right, y'know? Wish I'd known him for longer."_

_Audiat smiles at me – I can feel a prickle of warmth in her aura, almost see the crinkle in the corner of her eyes. _He would've loved that, too. He loved you. And Paige. And your parents. He loved his whole family. And it's not right to forget that.

_"Right." Swallowing, I look down at my feet. "I don't want to forget that."_

Then don't.

* * *

_"Lucius," Bryon sighs, sounding very, very tired – his weariness falls not upon deaf ears, but upon uncaring ones indeed. "You're not supposed to be in here, you know."_

_"Oh, I know," he responds venomously. "I'm well aware. And I'm sure you wanted it to be your little wife so she could cozy up in your arms and, hey, maybe you could have one last good fuck. I'm well aware of that."_

_"You're upset," the older man realizes after a pause, concern replacing his jaded uncouthness. "What's wrong, Lucius? What's the matter?"_

_"The matter is that you've left me all alone in this." Straightening, the boy takes a step back, turning around angrily to meet the dead man's eyes. "You were the only one that knew the truth. My last fucking hope. And you couldn't even save your goddamn niece before you died."_

_Bryon releases a heavy sigh, hanging his head and shaking it very, very slowly. "Lucius…"_

_"I don't understand it!" the boy shrieks, and before his eyes, the Prince of Hell begins to unravel. "I don't understand it at all! You love your fucking family, you loved me! How could you? How could you even… he killed us all!"_

_"Lucius…"_

_"Penryn, Belle, Theobella, S'tzu, Emilio, Kilo, Thea, Sariel, Mom!" Lucius says furiously. "And later, you know what he's going to do if I settle down?" His words spike with poison. "If I want to have kids? Raise a family? Take an actual wife instead of goddamn power whores? He'll kill them, too!"_

_"Lucius."_

_"Thousands, Bryon!" He paces angrily to the taller man, staring up into bronze eyes he had… he had so dearly missed for centuries. "Thousands of our people! Not just our family, but… everyone! How can you…? How can you let that slip past?"_

_"Why are you taking this out on me now?" Bryon says quietly, studying the demon with muted curiosity and a mounting sense of dread. "I think I know why, but… just tell me."_

_"You were my last hope of saving her, Bryon," Lucius hisses through gritted teeth. "If I could've kept Penryn from falling in love, I could've saved us all. I could've saved my goddamn mom. My goddamn baby cousin. You know, the little six-year-old girl that's terrified out of her wits and currently terrorizing cities. Because she doesn't understand why her daddy's evil."_

_"Lucius, it would've happened –"_

_"Don't give me your half-assed excuse!" Lucius snaps, turning on a dime and hurling a fist into the stone wall beside him, causing a shudder to ripple down the corridor, as if the foundations of heaven itself are shaking. "You saw it too, didn't you? As he pulled her body from the aerie? I saw you watching."_

_Bryon watches, mute, and awfully, terribly sad as Lucius's voice begins to quiver with tears. He tries to recall the last time he saw the boy crying – truly crying – and can't. _

_"You saw it, too. One day, one day far, far from now, he'll be carrying her dead body and he'll be the one to have killed it! That monster, he's… he's going to kill us all. He's going to kill every last one of us."_

_Raking his hands through his hair, Lucius paces, agitated, back and forth over the floor, swallowing thickly. _

_"And it's up to me now to fix that." A dry croak sounds in the back of Lucius's throat. "You understand that, don't you? No one would ever listen to the weird, lunatic Son of Satan, would they? You get that every word I speak will be disregarded as ludicrous? And now you've gone and you've left me all alone and…" Lucius sucks in a great breath, looking back into his bronze eyes again. "And I don't what to do, Bryon. I don't. I don't know how to save Penryn or Paige or anyone. Or Bertholdt. Or Belle. Or even fucking Ariel. I don't know what to do without you."_

_"I believe in you," Bryon whispers softly. "You're strong, Lucius. So very, very strong."_

_Lucius chokes on his own spit. "S-strong?" he stammers, appearing at a loss for words. Suddenly, the choking becomes a small, terrified sob. A scarlet tear traces down a porcelain cheek, and a mouth opens and closes._

_"Bryon, I –" Lucius shakes his head, opening and closing his mouth with strangled noises. "I am sixteen! _Sixteen!_" _

_His words hang in the air, suspended, tense. The silence is broken with a pathetic mewl escaping his throat. He throws himself backwards, colliding against a wall and slipping down onto the floor, his sobs coming easily now. _

_"I am sixteen, Bryon, and I don't want to be fucking _strong_, I don't – you were the only one that ever seemed to give a shit, and now everyone – Penryn, Mom, Emilio, Belle, Ariel – is going to die." Lucius weeps louder, curling into a tiny ball. "He's going to kill them, Bryon. He's going to kill them. And I don't know… what can I do?"_

_"Lucius…"_

_"What can I do?" he whispers in a soft, shivering voice, shoulders rocking up and down. "What can I do? I can't do anything!"_

_"You poor, poor boy," Bryon whispers, his voice sounding heavy. Slowly, he moves forward, placing a hand on Lucius's shoulder and using another to tilt his chin up. "I love you, Lucius. I love you so much. I don't know what I can say. There's no easy way out of this enigma. We can only brave –"_

_"Fuck that!" Lucius howls. "I'm – I'm sick of this. I want them back! I want my mom back! I want – I want Emilio back! I don't want that bastard to whisk them away, I just want –"_

_"Lucius." Bryon's voice is firmer now. "Lucius, put your eyes on me. Now, Lucius."_

_Sniffling, rubbing the back of his hand against his nose, Lucius tilts his gaze upwards – his shoulders shake and his nose still runs, scarlet tears tracing down his face. He looks like something out of a nightmare, something horrendous, something to be feared, and yet… nothing has ever seemed more vulnerable to Bryon. _

_"You know that's not your name, don't you, my boy?" Bryon whispers, roughly cupping the demon's jaw. "You know what your name translates to. Don't you?"_

_"I'd be an idiot not to." Lucius sniffs dejectedly, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and pressing his face into Bryon's hand. Voice muffled, the boy mumbles, "But he's gone now, that other one. I killed him."_

_"You're still the boy you used to be," Bryon croons softly, looking into the demon's eyes. "You're just a little more damaged. A little bit rougher around the edges. But it makes you so much more of a beautiful soul, Lucius. Your heart is so… so inexplicably huge and gorgeous in its own way. And you know what, boy? You can still be Bryon Jr. if you try. He's not gone. He's just locked up a bit tighter."_

_"He's gone." Lucius sounds uncertain, even to his own ears. "That boy is gone. So long as there is business to be done, I will need this wretched skin and these terrible eyes, because fuck knows nothing I say gets taken seriously without them. Hell, most things still aren't."_

_"Actions speak louder than words, son," Bryon whispers. "If you want to be the good man I know you are… show everyone else."_

_Slowly, Lucius shakes his head, looking dubious. "I'm not sure… I'm not sure I can do this, Bryon. I'm already driving myself crazy. I can't watch them die again. I can't."_

_"Then don't." One slender eyebrow perks. "Word on the streets, Lucius, is that you've learned the art of reincarnation, of transferring a soul into a different body, a body of your own making. Did you pick that talent up for nothing?"_

* * *

**There's one pronoun in that last section that should clear up the picture more. **

**Also. Lucius is sixteen. Now, I don't know your ages out there in the audience, but… no one's got their shit together at sixteen. **

**Explanation for his age, in case I don't get around to it? Lucifer's curse stunted his growth. **

**So, let's do a little tally-up of everything that's going on in Lucius's world right now: he's an emotional wreck, he's furious, he's lost, he's lonely, and, if you read between the lines, he's terrified that everyone's right about him being a lunatic. Not only that, but… he knows everybody's gonna die. Conclusion? You tell me. **

**I have most of the next chapter already written. He he.**

**POLL: I'm a little bit in denial that End of Days ever existed, but I know that's probably not the case with some of y'all. Right? There had to be someone that enjoyed it…? Right…? Lemme know if you want me to continue this regardless, or if it's just best to let it lie. Up to y'all.**

**EDIT: There was a big ol resounding "YES" from all y'all - hello, dear readers I've never heard from, I'm glad you like it! Onwards with B&amp;B!**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	71. Chapter Seventy

**Chapter Seventy**

"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!"

Hugo's singsong voice pierces through my hazy dull. Moaning, I stretch out along the bed, reaching for a body beside me that isn't there. The faint vestige of warmth on the sheets is unsatisfying, and it helps to wake me up – with a sleepy mumble, I peek my eyes open.

"Ah, good." Hugo, already clad in his servant's uniform, lifts up the stiff maid's dress. "Remember this? Suit up."

"Noooo," I groan into the pillows, diving back face-first. "'S too early."

"I agree with you," he sighs, muffled by the pillow, "but Michael's on a warrior's schedule. He wants to get the meeting with the archangels done by the time breakfast rolls around. Get your lazy ass up."

"Wha?" I strain my eyes against the light, glancing beneath my arm. "Why is he callin' a meeting?"

"Remember how Lucius woke up the other day?" Hugo's mouth is settled in a flat frown. "Well, so did Jane. He's going to try and get some information out of her before he kills her."

"Information…?" I sit up sleepily, raking hands through my hair and yawning. "'Bout what?"

"About Theobella." He sighs, tossing the dress towards me. "Like I said. Suit up. Today is going to be particularly long."

* * *

The maid's uniform is even more uncomfortable than before, if that makes any sense. A particular strip of fabric along my hip is chafing me like mad. I shift awkwardly, trying to give my raw skip a bit of a break, and accidentally draw Michael's eyes to me again.

I try not to blush as he stares at me boringly. Raffe's only glanced at me once, seeming to avoid me almost stubbornly, but Michael keeps glancing this way. I can't figure out why, and it's bugging me a bit. If he didn't want servants here, then why did he specifically request a pair, just in case?

Sitting here on the edge of the hall, waiting for a call to service that I have a hunch shall never come, is weird. Directly beside me is Hugo, stiff-backed and professional, his copper eyes faced diligently forward. I've been doing my best to imitate his smooth authority with varied results. He barely seems to move, his eyes only roving the other wall on the end of the cafeteria, grazing along the tables that'd been pushed away.

It's not like anyone would notice if I tripped up, either. The angels look utterly exhausted, the only ones remotely awake Titaniel, Michael, and Ariel. Raffe looks like he's thinking about making a pillow with his uneaten biscuits. Uriel's hair has a cow lick. One of Ariel's cherubs is asleep on her shoulder. An angel I don't know the name of lazily drags his spoon through some coffee.

Down the hall, a ruckus sounds, drawing them more at attention – Michael looks up expectantly, and stands, opening his arms welcomingly as one of his elite stumble through the door. The elite tugs at a long length of chain, and, through the doorway, he pulls a terrible snarling beast.

"We invite you to sit, Jane," Michael intones, smiling icily, gesturing the creature forward. "Come. We mean no harm."

The wolf snarls, throwing back its head, only to have the angel at her tether yank her harshly back down. Cursing, he grapples with her, dragging her further into the room. Jane digs her claws into the tile floor. Each step Michael's guard drags her makes an awful scraping noise.

With an angry shout, the angel manages to drag her to the center of the room. He drags her chain towards a hook directly in front of Michael's seat at the table, and makes quick work of binding her. Jane roars in the back of her throat, lunging at him furiously, but he scurries back quickly, leaving her straining at the end of her leash.

Unable to do anything but glare maliciously at her captors, Jane paces in the broadest of circles her chain will allow. Her pupils are narrower than usual, narrowed with hatred. She snarls and bristles at the angels, upset at having her prey so close and yet so far.

Jane looks like she's had a terrible time. An iron muzzle encircles her jaws and head, keeping it locked painfully tight, judging by the red, furless skin bordering the metal shackles. One of her ears has a chunk out of it, and her fur is missing patches along the ribs. Bruises and bloody patches can be seen through her fur.

I glance towards Hugo. He's standing stiffer than before, his expression more tight-lipped, his fists clenched. I bump my shoulder against his. When he doesn't respond, I refocus my attention on the scene in front of us.

At last, she pauses in front of Michael, braced for a fight, and pulls her lips back. Her voice is like a whip to my brain. _What is it that you want, cur?_

"Merely to talk," Michael says easily, sitting back in his chair for the first time. "Civilly, of course. Can't have you beheading us all, can we?"

_I see nothing civil about this arrangement. _She yanks her head back, rattling the chain. _I am not an animal. I will not be treated like one. _

"That's too bad," Michael says pitilessly, dismissing her. "We have a few questions for you, Jane. Well – I do. Would you mind answering them for me?"

_That depends entirely on what they are. Tell me, Michael – are your puppets aware to whom they're dancing for? _Her eyes seem to glitter with spite. _Do they know who I am?_

"You're the angel killer," Ariel answers in her throaty purr, stroking at one of her cherub's back. "We are here not at Michael's demand. If it'd been up to him, we would've all still been sleeping. Now please. Let him ask you."

_Not puppets, but witnesses. _The wolf chuffs, shaking her head. _Witnesses at the execution of the angel killer. Very well, Michael. Tell me – what do you wish for me to share in my last moments?_

"Be careful," Uriel hisses. "Be very specific – I don't trust her –"

Michael lifts a hand, silencing him. "I don't trust her, either, but she's in chains, and can do very little, Uriel." He leans forward, a smile pricked at the corners of his lips. "Tell me, Jane – is it true that you partook in the experiments of the creature known as the Tyab'la?"

_Yes. I was their accomplice. _

"Excuse me – Tyab'la?" Ariel leans forward, eyes narrowed. "I have read many different accounts as to what that creature is. May I request your definition."

Jane studies Ariel impassively for a long moment. _An immortal creature that was once something beautiful. It holds no emotions. Only strict intelligence. Terrible, terrible being, but quite clever. It maintains the unique ability to control another's body. _

Ariel nods grimly. "I see. Is this a threat for us, currently?"

_How would I know? _Jane cocks her head. _They only told me what I needed to know. I did not need to know that for our experiments. Besides, I do believe that this territory is claimed by Theobella. _

"Is there a difference between the two?" Raffe wonders, leaning forward.

"Who's… Theobella?" wonders Uriel, glancing around in confusion.

_Theobella is almost as merciless, not as powerful. She is capable of love. Selective love, of course, and love that… perhaps isn't quite healthy. Emotions are vague and wretched, but they are raw in Theobella. I must admit, I know very little of her. _

I breathe out slowly, sparing a glance at Raffe and then at Hugo. Neither of them seem sure what to make of that – Hugo shrugs furtively, and Raffe avoids my gaze.

"Yes… fascinating." Michael claps his hands together once, regaining attention. "What I want to know from you is how much of the information I can leech from you about the experiments. You were using she-angels from this aerie, yes?"

_She-angels that were willing to hand their souls over to the enrichment of science. _

Ariel shivers, scowling at Jane. Titaniel cocks his head to one side.

"What experiments were you performing on them?" Michael's eyes gleam. "What did you learn? What did you know?"

Jane hesitates, her ears folding back, glancing around the room. She bristles, her guard hairs creeping slowly up. _I do not know if I should share that information with you, if only for your sake. _

"Michael…" Uriel sighs, kneading at his forehead. "Honestly, did you drag us out of bed to listen to a mad animal ramble about monsters?"

"Quiet, Uriel," Raffe growls, glaring at the archangel over Michael's shoulder.

"Both of you, don't even go there," Ariel snaps, her eyes flashing. "This is not a professional environment, and, trust me, it should be. Do not show weakness to an enemy."

With a bit of grumbling, the two refocus. Raffe cracks his knuckles under the table, and Uriel taps his fingers along the edge of his empty dish, but neither of them do anything more than threaten.

Jane, who had been watching the exchange with sharp eyes, chuffs again. She paces to and fro, her chain dragging along the tile floor. _I could tell you, I could. I would have to explain everything to you in great depth, but I could. I won't, though. _She stiffens, head lifting, staring Michael defiantly in the eye. _I won't breathe a word. _

"And why not?" he asks smoothly.

_Because you will not comprehend it. No matter how many times I explained, you would not keep up. Your mind does not work… on the same frequency, let us say, as mine does. _

"I promise I would do my best," Michael vows, smiling thinly at her. "And if anyone at this table misunderstood, we would be sure to ask each other and you questions."

_You will think me a madwoman. _Only hesitance stands between Michael and his answer. My eyes flick nervously from Jane to the angel – his gaze remains open and steady, whereas she seems more anxious, like a schoolgirl nervous before presenting. Her hind feet skitter back and forth, and her tail wags apprehensively.

"My dear," Michael sighs, his tone like honey, "I already think you one. At this point, I only want to know what's going on."

_Then prepare your mortal mind. _Jane sits, tucking her tail beneath her, and narrows her amethyst eyes. _You were not meant to think on very many planes of existence, so this might strain you slightly. Just open yourself and drop all prejudices to what I have to say._

Uriel sighs and shakes his head, sighing. "Michael, you can't seriously –"

He slams his mouth shut abruptly, paling as if he'd seen a ghost. Hands flying to his temples, he groans and tries to massage himself, as if struck by a sudden headache. I wince, eyeing Jane, knowing full well who'd been the cause of his premature silence.

_You are aware of the theories of many dimensions, correct, Michael? In terms of shapes and lines. Mathematical things._

"I am." Michael leans forward, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "Why? What does that have to do with… your research with the Tyab'la?"

_Everything. Absolutely everything. You see, Michael, the world can most eloquently be described in mathematical terms. I will do my best to relay what I have learned to you. We – us – everything we do, everything we are – can be expressed in a figure in an equation. When we are all added and subtracted and multiplied and all those other tedious things, we equal the whole of existence. However… it is more complicated than that. _

"More complicated how?" Michael urges in a soft tone of voice, seeming raptured.

_The web connecting us all – the equation signs – those are what can be considered the fourth dimension. Seeing how we all connect. Seeing the whole of the world, how things… interact. That is the fourth dimension. It is honestly as I can explain it to you. For sake of relating it to your terms…_ She cocks her head to one side. _We – our physical forms – exist on the second dimension. Our thoughts, our minds, our souls… they are the third dimension. _

"Alright." Michael frowns, his brow puckering. "I'm trying to understand. I think I'm doing decently – this is not so difficult as you made it seem, is it?"

_You're probably not understanding at all. _Jane heaves a massive sigh. _Now, my experiments both with trying to better understand the fourth dimension and seeing how we can fully understand the concept of the third dimension. Think of it now; we, in this world, metaphors aside, have a vague understanding of the fourth dimension, since we exist in the third. We do not fully understand it, though science says it is highly likely we use it in day to day life. My gifted partner in research, the Tyab'la, had extraordinary insight on this phenomenon. _

"Can you consider it a phenomenon, really?" Michael inquires.

_Life itself is a phenomenon. Why does anything exist? Because it does. That is the reason. If that is not a phenomenon, what else could be?_

"Wise words." Michael steeples his fingers. "Continue."

_Theobella and I pressed the limits of a being bound by the "second dimension". We found that what we explain as sleep or unconsciousness is really being purely immersed in the "third dimension", and that only select minds had the power of understanding it completely. We discovered that these minds were the ones that were pushed to absolute madness, those that did not cling to a scrap of so-called sanity. Specifically, those who were under Lucius's influence. _

My throat tightens.

_What you consider sanity is only life on the second dimension. Your everyday lives only exist in a certain plane. And so when someone ascends – becomes bigger, greater, more powerful than the average being in ways you can't explain, can't understand with your fickle minds – you blame it on insanity. That is what true madness is. It marks the difference between someone who is madly enlightened and someone who is mentally challenged. _

"Perhaps some of Lucius's victims can see into this other world," Ariel pipes up, "but there are many different types of insanity. Surely they're not all from this sight."

_Perhaps not all,_ Jane relents. _That was a theory we were investigating. The minds that are not Lucius's that are insane tend to have the ability to see into the third dimension, an ability that frightens and shocks the mind into a state of insanity that most commonly occurs. _

I breathe a sigh of relief.

_That said, you don't have to be branded "insane" to have this madness. Many more than you would ever consider have the capability to exist on his plane, one of the most notable the Nephilim King, rest his soul, for he grew skilled at… seeing? Seeing in the third dimension. I know for certain that some do it without thinking. _One of Jane's neatly pricked ears swivels directly towards me. _The den of the Black Wolf, for instance, is a place of pure mentality. It exists on an upper plane. _

A shiver runs down my spine. I wonder how Jane could possibly know about my connection with Black Wolf, blushing and trying to hide my face from the archangels. Even Raffe can't see my confusion.

_The Garden of Eden is also a higher plane, but there is no hope of achieving it. The Tyab'la has tried and failed to gain entrance; she could not break through the stronghold if she tried. There, it is said that they physically exist in the third dimension, and their thoughts are in the fourth. Does this make sense to you?_

"I'll admit," Michael chuckles, "I'm having difficulty seeing the giant lizard as a madman. He seemed a simpleton, not one to mix himself in this."

_You're very wrong. He saw everyone with a sort of simple clarity, yes, but that simple clarity stemmed from his extensive curiosity with the planes of thought and existence. Bryon was one of a kind; not everyone convenes with the one you refer to as God._

"God." Raphael jolts forward in his seat. "Explain the concept of a God."

_Like every equation, there must've been a writer. It is uncertain why there is a writer but it's also uncertain why there's an equation. As discovered by Lucius and shared with me by the Tyab'la, the purpose of this world is to create a new God to create the next world. All of our individual elements – yours, mine, the tile beneath our feet, the algae floating on a fish pond – teaches them about how to create an equation of their own and continue what they consider a cycle. Like a child maturing beneath a parent's wing. There are two contestants for this role in this particular unit of the cycle – Lucius and the Tyab'la. It is unclear if there are any more, but it is highly unlikely. _

"What?" Raffe's voice shakes. "What do you mean? Lucius? The Tyab'la?"

_Their blood is both five-eighths. That percentage gave them both the right boost to elevate them into… the playing fields. Of course, there is also their traumatic childhoods which motivate them both in very different ways – it's so strange, isn't it, to think that you were the cause of both's misery? _Jane cocks her head, staring at Raffe through narrowed purple eyes. _You taught Theobella that the world is vicious and that she needs to be to survive. And you taught Lucius that his love will only hurt him when you killed the only one who'd ever love him back. Quite strange, I'd say. _

"Don't turn this on Raffe," Ariel says quietly. "The conversation is still based on Lucius and Theobella. You're saying that the purpose of all of us is to teach them how to… read this equation?"

_Basically. I think. Your ways of explaining things are beneath me. It's very curious, seeing their different ways of exploring our world. Theobella has thrown herself into the midst of everything happening around her. As Lucius said… she is the zero. All of the past, present, and future levitates around her. In order to learn how something ticks, she rips it up and examines every little piece, and, most of the time, she doesn't bother to put it back together. _

_Lucius's adoration of Bryon can be seen in his approach on life. I find it fascinating. Instead of taking on the viewpoint of a god from an early age like Theobella, he chose to walk alongside us. Arrogantly, of course, but he chose to love and laugh and cry and let his heart be broken like any human. He doesn't look at humans as being numbers in the equation, try as he might. As opposed to Theobella's benevolence and belligerence, he is the embodied element of the careful balance of madness and intelligence. And, instead of tearing things apart, he is like an artist who creates the world around him. _Jane chuckles softly. _He gives second chances. He knows that life comes at a price, so never come begging for a miracle, but the fool tries to help anyway. He grants opportunities. Ask him someday about his gardens. He creates life there, too. _

"Gardens?" Michael repeats.

"Is he a gardener?" Ariel asks, sounding amused.

_I have never seen flowers so diverse and aesthetic. Some of them truly belong in the Garden of Eden. It is a clever way to go about learning the multiple logistics of living organisms – creating a life form that cannot feel pain, cannot think of its misery. He cannot drive a tree mad. Poor stupid child._

Jane fidgets, pulling her tail out from under her and flexing her wings.

_I will admit, however, that he… frightens me. Whatever Lucifer did to Lucius – whatever terrible, terrible curse he inflicted – it did something… truly awful. _

"Awful?" Uriel prompts, at last seeming to have recovered from the headache.

_To put you into perspective… we only a vague understanding of the fourth dimension. We believe we know how it works, yet we cannot experience it and have no way of proving if our theories are accurate. That said about the fourth dimension, the one you know as Lucius can elevate his mental state – his thoughts, the ones we have on our third plane – to the _fifth_ plane. _

A chill runs down my spine.

"Fifth?" Raffe echoes. "What is the fifth? What the hell does that mean?"

_I wish I knew more than I do, because I honestly and truly can only guess. Understanding the third dimension gave Bryon extreme clarity and peace. I do not think the same can be said about Lucius and his multiple levels. And, in that matter, Lucius frightens me very, very much. _

Michael's eyebrows furrow. "I'd think that Theobella should frighten you more. After all, if she is truly looking to dissect us all, you'd be a primary target, with your intelligence, wouldn't you?"

_Certainly. I cannot do anything more for her. My death is almost inevitable at this point. Most of my research will rot, old and forgotten, inside of a tunnel made with skulls… _Jane's ears fold back. _I must admit, I am not fond of that idea. Never in all my life did I consider that I would die before the Dragon King, the last one that can read my ancient language. But perhaps it is for the better. Some tests need only be performed once. _

"She has gruesome ones, I think," Raffe says hesitantly. My heart squeezes as I remember the pitch-black tunnels lined with thousands of lost souls, and the poor angel trapped in her tests. "I've heard that, at least."

"I've read a few of her journals," Michael says quietly. "Their translations, at least. I'm well aware of her cruelty."

_Terrible things must be committed. I am not sorry for what I did. It was terrible. Very terrible. But had I not done it, you all would've been idiots stumbling in the dark. _

"She raises a fair point," Ariel admits, sighing. "We can't judge her methods of receiving intelligence if we're going to be the ones using it."

Uriel grunts. "I wasn't aware that the truth meant so much to you, Ariel."

"Please, don't," Michael sighs, rubbing at his forehead with one hand. "Does anyone have any more questions for Jane?"

"How dangerous is Lucius?" Raffe questions immediately. He leans forward, his blue eyes unusually bright, filled with malice.

_You would stand no chance against him in any aspect he would agree to. He likes making deals. He doesn't like being forced into duels. _

I suppress a smile as Raffe sinks back into his seat, looking a bit like a scolded toddler – I know I shouldn't, I know his hatred of Lucius stems off from Lucius's control over me. But… My suppressed smile crashes. Lucius is literally a God.

Lucius is literally a God.

I shake my head slowly and refocus my attention on Michael.

"…I'm not really sure if that has anything to do with it, but I'd like to just know."

_That was the biggest heap of bullshit I've ever heard. Mathematical terms were a figurative way for me to convey my message in terms you could understand. We are more than numbers and figures. _

"It was a simple question," Michael sighs.

Ariel raises her hand, looking uncertain as to how to gain the party's attention. "You made it sound as if Theobella and Lucius were enemies, but you never specifically said… are they hostiles?"

_They would be fools not to be. Both have options to be granted what they both assume is unlimited power, but only one can achieve it. They were born cousins, you realize. They grew up together. But their paths separated, and innocent adoration has turned into mature hatred. I believe Lucius regards it with more of a wistful note, believing it to be the nature of things or something else equally poignant and silly along those lines, whereas Theobella views it almost like another childish game. _

"I have a question." Titaniel has been as quiet as a mouse and as still as a statue for so long that I'd forgotten he existed. He leans forward, eyes wide, huge, and dull, like lusterless riverstones. "What does any of this have to do with Black Wolf and White Wolf?"

A chill runs down my spine, like a drop of icy liquid rolling down my vertebrae, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow thickly; Black Wolf, the one with the doomed family, father of Theobella. For some reason, I'd forgotten all about that. Tonight, perhaps if I speak a prayer, he'll allow me to talk with him again. Maybe he'll explain some more of what's going on. Maybe he was once this angel, sitting at a table of comrades, instead of a miserable thought-wolf existing on a mental plane.

_In the larger scheme of things, the ones you refer to as Black Wolf and White Wolf have no significance. They are only another hurdle. Another subplot in a huge world of subplots. Their story is only better known than most. _

Titaniel nods, as if he'd expected no other answer.

Sighing, Michael leans forward, his expression lost in arcane thought. "So. Madness is a ruse leading to true intelligence –"

_No, it is vision into another realm, few actually have the ability to comprehend what they're seeing, what they're understanding, leading to what is commonly interpreted as madness. _

"– Theobella and Lucius hate each other, God is a lie, we are all pawns in one huge game, the Prince of Hell has a lot of issues, and Theobella is trying to pick you apart, likely to sweep in at any given moment. Am I correct?"

_King. _

Jane's mind is soft, without any explanation to it. It's like the soft, wistful plink of a piano key at the end of a song, or the sound of a drop of water hitting a leaf. Quiet, yes, but so, so important. For reasons I can't quite explain, my blood runs cold.

"King?" Michael repeats. "What do you mean, King?"

_You said the Prince of Hell. _Jane cocks her head slowly, blinking perhaps for the first time. _I was correcting you. King. King of Hell. _

Silence seems to scream around the hall. The rustle of feathers ceases, and the frozen angels turn to look at Jane. Slowly, she peels back her lips over gleaming fangs in a grim, malicious grin.

_Three hours prior to this moment, Lucifer was killed. It could have nothing to do with Lucius's cold-blooded fury I sensed earlier, but the odds are that it's not the case. _

Beside me, Hugo gasps, tucking his chin on his chest and staring intently at his shoes with a look of horror. Raffe stands up, throwing his chair backwards, his hand on Pooky Bear's hilt. Ariel pales, her eyes going wide. Michael's hands tighten around his goblet. Uriel scrabbles over the table, like a frightened rat. Titaniel just sort of looks up.

_Also, Michael, I feel obliged to warn you: his fury isn't solely dedicated towards Lucifer. _Jane leans forward, licking her chops almost coyly. _After all, it wasn't Lucifer that hit him over the head and knocked him out cold, was it? And, let's be honest here – not only did dozens of humans he'd sworn to protect die, but also, one who truly, truly loved him… last time that happened… well… you all see Lucius's cruelty towards Raffe now. _She levels her gaze with Michael's. _You are a dead man walking, same as me. _

A silence watches with brutal indifference, keeping the air still aside from the panicked breaths of those trapped. If a battle of wills could be measured, the tension between Jane and Michael would be off the charts. Her hackles are raised, her fur bristling, eyes ablaze with the thrill of a final stand.

"Make sure she's secure," Michael orders calmly. His little guard scampers from the wall, pulling Jane's chain tight, forcing her muzzle down so that her head bows forward. Try as he might, he is unable to break her vicious glare on Michael.

The archangel rises slowly, drawing his sword in a manner that depicts both jaded lethargy and the petulant toying of cat and mouse. His eyes, alight with fire that does not quite reach their inner calm, yet lapping insistently upon his patience, do not leave Jane's. The silver metal gleams as he lifts it over his shoulder, vaulting over the banquet table.

Other archangels look as if they wish to protest. Their eyes flicker to and fro, caught in a battle between what they believe and what they are willing to do for that which they believe in.

"I am sorry for how this turned out," Michael apologizes insincerely. "You had such a long run, too. The world will mourn your passing."

Jane bares her teeth, showing the white fangs peering from black gums. _Do not patronize me. You enjoy this as much as I shall enjoy the look upon your face when the New Satan comes for you. _

Smoothly, Michael says, "We both know that you'll be dead long before –"

A white ghost slips past me. I jump out of my skin, flattening myself against the wall as a frigid hand brushes against mine as the figure whisks past. Heels click across the marble floor, drawing the attention of all.

Lucius lays a hand upon Jane's flank, and, almost instantly, she begins to dissolve. My jaw drops as, bit by bit, her flesh and skin and blood and dimension fall apart, becoming diaphanous dust as white as a bleached desert bone. The chains rattle to the floor, and, with a final, shit-eating grin, Jane vanishes entirely.

All the bravado of Michael has faded, the spotlight has been stolen. The dust curls around Lucius's feet, floating into the air with a pale dusty cloud, swelling about him affectionately. It halos his head, lapping at his cheekbones and giving him a holy glow. Perhaps it is the illusion of knowing him better that gives him more beauty, fierce and rough as an uncut mountain's peak. Perhaps that is it.

But such illusion does little to explain why so many others stare at him gawkingly, entranced.

"Dearest Michael," Lucius purrs, pulling at a cuff link, deliberately directing his attention to his sleeve, "I don't take kindly to you threatening my Wives. She was already under such stress."

"What did you do?" Michael demands hoarsely, pausing to cough up a cloud of the white powder. "What – what the hell?"

"She's safe now." Lucius leans down, holding the thick black chain in his hand – he studies it indifferently for a few seconds, holding it up to the light. The muscles in his jaw clench lividly. "Is this how she's been treated? Chained like an animal?"

"She is an animal." Shaking his head to rid the very last of the white powder from him, Michael squares his shoulders, glaring down at Lucius. "A smart animal, but an animal nonetheless."

"But of course," Lucius says coolly. "Just like the monkeys."

My stomach drops.

They regard one each other for a few long, dangerous moments. It looks almost bizarre, the stark contrast between personalities, between auras, between appearances. Lucius, shorter than average and white as an eagle's feather, standing with perhaps a greater sense of danger about him than Michael, tall and dark and gold and _regal_. Manipulative intelligence and profound observation. Dangerous skill, personal ability, and fierce determination for a goal that might've once been liable and natural talent, forced cleverness, and an impassive ambition for power and military strength. Nobility hidden beneath false lechery and lechery hidden beneath false nobility.

Opposites. Utter opposites.

Lucius's voice is cold and smooth, like the face of an icy lake before the first thaw. "Do you know how many monkeys died at the hands of your warriors, Michael?"

The silence grows tenser. Raffe and Titaniel reach for their swords. Michael says nothing, but his eyes glitter and narrow, as if trying to understand the turn of Lucius's conversation.

"One hundred and thirty-seven people." Lucius tilts his head to one side, leisurely shifting his weight back onto his heels. He lets it hang in the air for a few seconds before shaking his head and continuing in an angrier voice, "One hundred and thirty-seven people that died because of you."

Michael studies Lucius, but does not say a word.

Lucius walks forward slowly, drawing closer and closer to Michael with a slow, jaunting prowl. It's almost identical to the predatory saunter the archangel had used when approaching Jane, right down to Michael's defiant glare, the sort that hides fear.

"Do you know how many angels you have in your personal army, Michael?"

Silence. Michael swallows, his eyes blowing wide.

"Seventy-five." Lucius leans forward, hands curling into fists by his sides. "_Seventy-five, _Michael. That's less than half of the people that they murdered." Suddenly, the demon jerks back, looking off into the distance, his voice soft, lilting, _teasing_. "Still, though… it should be enough."

Michael jerks forward, the tendons in his neck snapping taut. "_What?_" he snarls, defiance replaced by horror. "What have you done?"

Lucius glides past Michael, heels clicking, and amblingly approaches the table of additional archangels. A cruel grin twists his features. "Titaniel!" he calls out, linking his arms behind his back. "You didn't used to be all nasty and black, did you, now?"

Titaniel blinks slowly.

"Spit it out, man!" Lucius growls, cruel laughter laced through his words. "Because Titaniel, oh, Titaniel, I know you remember. I can see your scars from here. But you're lucky, you know. So lucky. If I had gotten a full bite in, a droplet more of venom more in your system, and you'd be dead on the floor."

"It was a demon," Titaniel says uncertainly. "You – you are not a wolf. You are a man."

"I am not a man, nor a wolf, nor a demon, but the unholy offspring of all three." Lucius's lips split open in a terrible black smile, riddled with those thin needles of teeth in his black gums. "Remember the fever, Titaniel? Remember as you stumbled away from me, holding your hand up to the moonlight, watching as your pale skins stained black before your eyes? Remember the awful churning in your stomach? The feeling of undoing in every particle of your body?"

Titaniel blinks a few times, but does not say anything. His emotionless must be conflicting with terrible memories.

"Would a demonstration help jar some memories?"

Lucius's head whips around, his grin turning more into a snarl, and fixes his gaze upon Michael's sole guard. With a serpentine hiss and a white blur, he lunges. Teeth flash. Blood splatters over the tile floor. Red dribbles down Lucius lips, licked up by a black tendril of a tongue.

The guard staggers back, wailing and clutching his hand to his chest. Almost instantly, his breathing becomes ragged and wet, but whether that's from Lucius's bite or pure shock, I don't know.

Hugo yelps on the other side of the room, eyes bugging out, jaw dropping at something he can see but I cannot. The guard's back is to me, I cannot see him, I cannot see anything. Ariel shouts a surprised curse and knocks her chair back as she stands. Michael watches, mouth open, helpless.

The guard wails pitifully again. Uriel squeaks out a prayer. My hands fly to the dagger hidden beneath my clothes, but it's unnecessary, so unnecessary, because the guard pitches forward, staggering towards Michael. Strangled cries of help escape his lips, garbled and nearly unintelligible. He pivots slightly, and I see him.

Blackness is creepy up his arm terrifyingly quickly – not a blackness in the veins, or a sourness of the skin, but pure black. It's not so much that the fluid inside him is turning dark, but his flesh changes tone. Blacker and blacker he becomes, until he is an ebony plume in the darkness. The brown of his eyes begins to pale – it grows intensely colored, saturated, a bright hazel pale against the dark pallor of his skin. Screaming, the angel arches his spine, sparing us a glance at the black gums and pearly white teeth.

He howls in anguish, feathers dropping one by one. I flinch away from the terrible screeches, heart pounding in my throat, watching in the corner of my eye as Michael leaps forward, attempting to pillow his warrior's head, murmuring in a soft panic to his soldier. Over the terrible cacophony, Lucius can be heard.

"He's got exactly twenty-four minutes and a half to live, with the dosage I gave him," the demon brags spitefully, heels clicking as he turns his back upon Michael. "Same dosage I gave to the rest, actually."

Michael freezes like a deer in the headlights, head whipping up. "What do you mean?"

Lucius peers over his shoulder, a smile as black as tar spread wide over his face. "My dear man, what do you think I mean?"

"You wouldn't dare!" Raffe snarls, adjusting his grip on the sword like he really might do something stupid like attack.

Tipping his head back and walking languidly away from the charged scene, Lucius laughs his low, terrible laugh, the kind that haunts my nightmares. "The first one was bit exactly twenty five minutes ago. …And now the second one's dead, too. I'd hurry to their bedsides if I were you. Really, I gave you next to no time to say goodbye."

"You wretched demon," Michael hisses, bolting to his feet, quivering from head to toe. "You ugly, unloved, lonely creature!"

Lucius pauses, tilting his head back, as if considering Michael's words with the nastiest of expression. "I think it's better to be lonely by choice," he hums thoughtfully, "than being left alone after everyone they care for dies at another's hands, wouldn't you?" He smiles wickedly, prowling off towards the door. "Good day, Michael. Good day, Raffe. Good day, Ariel, Titaniel, Uriel. Good night, Chamuel."

Lucius lifts his fingers up, snaps them, and the writhing angel upon the ground goes limp.

* * *

**Oh Lucius, sweet Lucius, how I love you. **

**Michael is relatively defenseless now. I wonder how that'll play out. Hmm. **

**POLL: Jane mentions there being a difference in Theobella and the Tyab'la. Here's a question for you - would it be wise to trust Theobella, seeing as she one of the few she still loves is Penryn? And, more importantly, would it be wise to trust Lucius?**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	72. Chapter Seventy-One

**Chapter Seventy One**

Agitatedly, Ariel paces the room. Her wings twitch and jerk upon her back rather than the rapid folding and unfolding of both Raffe and Audiat. The cunning eyes of her cherubs watch her pace from all corners of the room, their babyish heads suspended on their sleek catlike necks, turning, watching, stone-faced.

A cold stone is settled in my stomach. Despite myself, I can't help but selfishly think back to the moment where Lucius had stolen a kiss – a cold, clammy kiss. The awful taste of his poison tangs against my tongue at the memory. How closely had I brushed death? How easily could he have killed me?

"I don't understand it," Ariel growls for the millionth time, pulling to an abrupt halt and glaring at her reflection in our mirror. "Why? Why did he kill Lucifer? Why now, of all times?"

"He probably didn't have a reason," Hugo sighs, glancing up from his laptop screen, the clicking of keys not even stammering. "Keeping Lucifer around was really more of a convenience to him. He surpassed Old Satan's power long ago. Probably wanted to stay out of politics, maybe sheer laziness. Only Lucifer pissed him off. And now there's Theobella and the Tyab'la. Stakes are higher."

"We don't know if he's actually King, either," I add. Ariel looks up, looking astonished to hear me speaking. "Jane speculated that. He never confirmed it. There's probably as much political turmoil down there as there is over Gabriel."

Raffe glances up and flashes me a proud smile, but his face almost instantly moves into its former anxiety.

"Penryn raises a valid point," Hugo hums, clicking obnoxiously on something. "However, I don't think we should be worrying about him at all."

Ariel swirls around, her magnificent gown billowing outwards. "At all?" she repeats, eyes wide, lips twisted foully.

"No." Hugo's eyes fleetingly meet hers. "Worrying about the inevitable will get us nowhere. No, what I'm saying is that we close onto a little piece of information Jane forked over to us."

Raffe barks out a sharp laugh. "She gave us a lot of information, monkey. No way we can take out one little snippet of it."

"She gave us a whole lot of bullshit," Hugo corrects, rolling his eyes. "Whole, heaping tons of it. Didn't you see? She was biding her time. Feeding over useless information, none of it untrue, but none of it really mattering. Lucius and Jane are two extraordinarily powerful telepaths – it'd be so simple for them to communicate while they were both out, for him to tell her to bide her time. There was only one thing she let slip that's really interesting to me."

Audiat lifts her head, baffled. "I only got a small run-through of everything she said and I can think of a few more."

"The inevitability of death, the cruel fate of our universe, good versus evil doesn't exist, blah, blah, blah." Hugo releases a heavy sigh. "You're all so bland. We can't do anything about that. She's just meaninglessly stressing us out. I'm more interested in the fact that Theobella is the one running the show."

"Is there a difference?" I inquire softly. "The… the one with Bryon called herself Theobella, too. And… and I don't want to meet that one again."

"Nor I," Hugo amends, "but there's a difference, a definite difference, between the Tyab'la and Theobella, even if she doesn't call herself Tyab'la. Theobella was the one that you protected from Pigeon-Bat that one night. It wouldn't surprise me if she's protecting you now from her malevolent counterpart."

Slowly, Ariel nods, comprehension dawning in her eyes. "Yes… yes! That'd explain why Ogden has yet to make an appearance, if he truly is the Tyab'la's new puppet."

"You want to befriend Theobella," Raffe says flatly. "No."

"Oh, please," Hugo snorts.

"That is a terrible idea!" he shouts, curling his hands into fists. "The last thing we need is another monster on the loose!"

"Like you could stop me," Hugo sings, lifting his gaze from the laptop to grin nastily at Raffe.

"She's already on the way, isn't she?" Ariel sighs, raking a hand crossly through her hair.

_On the contrary, I never really left._

I jump backwards, eyes flailing about the room until I spot her glowing blue eye, peeking through the slim leaves of a houseplant atop a wardrobe. Body like a bronze coil, she slinks from out of behind it, twirling down the wooden doors to land gracefully on the floor. Audiat squeaks and darts backwards, being the closest to the little dragon.

"Ah, yes, thank you for meeting us," Hugo says, shutting the lid of his laptop and shoving it aside. He pops his knuckles and stands, the wicked grin not yet wiped from his features. "I figured you'd be watching over Penryn after that display downstairs, correct?"

Theobella's eyes skate from Hugo to me then back again. _Correct. She shall not be harmed. _

"Good, good," Hugo says, nodding. "We'll just add your name to the chart of supernatural beings looking after Penryn. Now, since she's on our side, would you think of maybe –"

_I will be your ally. _Her eyes narrow, and her tail twitches irritably. _No need to sugarcoat it. _

"Ah – good!" Hugo nods some more, grin fading, replaced by a more reserved expression.

"So tell me, Theobella." Ariel crosses her arms over her chest, glaring with narrowed eyes down at the dragon. "Who truly owns this aerie – me or you?"

_Michael. _Theobella cocks her head towards Ariel. _A sparrow's and a wolf's territory can overlap without error. However, the sparrow's will always be overwhelmed by an eagle. _

Ariel's lips twitch into a smile. "Clever."

"Excuse me, but, um." Audiat shifts forward again. "You made it seem like you never left. What… happened with you and the other one?"

_Ah, yes. _Reaching forward, she stretches like a cat, the scales along her spine rattling. _I am a younger version of her. If she killed me, she herself would've ceased to exist. However, I can kill her without fear of time's wrath. Once idle curiosity wore off, it was child's play to drive her off this patch of land. _

"How much will it take for us to boot you off?" Raffe snarls distrustfully, positioning himself not very subtly between me and her.

She whistles playfully, almost as if laughing, and my gut pangs with the nostalgia of it. _More guns than you've got. I think Lucius himself would have to kick me off of these grounds. _

"Which he won't do," I say slowly, meeting her gaze and watching it soften. "Right? Because…?"

_Because I am protecting one of his precious wives._

Raffe growls in the pit of his throat at that.

"How is that thing going between Lucius and the Tyab'la?" Ariel muses. "I know I shouldn't be one to worry about it, but I'm curious. Those poor girls were my girls."

_The Tyab'la is struggling to get ahold of the situation. She is failing. She has lost her only secure pegs, both at her own cause. Lucius has moved into a tier of power. _

"So…" I tilt my head to one side. "Is Lucius catching up to her, then? In their war thing?"

Both Theobella and Hugo turn to stare at me. "Penryn," Hugo laughs breathily, "why would you ever think Lucius wasn't in the lead?"

_Not only in the lead, but blazing ahead. _Nervously, Theobella opens and closes her wings. _On planes of existence we cannot see, cannot feel, cannot even sense, but that is what makes him so powerful. _

"The Tyab'la is frightened," Hugo continues, cracking a wry smile. "Hell, she's terrified. Remember what Jane said? She pulls things apart to see how they tick? She pulled apart two of her best assets, Gabriel and Bryon, and she's no closer. Penryn, she was trying to understand the _third_ 'dimension'. How far behind is she if Lucius is on the fifth?"

_The other me has only died a dozen, give or take a few, times in her lifetime. _Theobella shudders, getting smaller, staring at her feet. _I cannot even fathom how many times Lucius has been beat to death. Raped to death. Starved to death. Hell was not a kind place for a beautiful young boy. _

"They get more powerful every time they're killed." Pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, Hugo sighs. "Lucius is… he is without a doubt a trump card. Not only is he powerful enough to make us quiver in our boots, but he's got all of Hell's bitter armies behind him. He was always popular with the Fallen. Sympathetic. Bay liked him. They'll rally behind him."

_And the rest will follow. _She lifts her head and meets my eyes again, scales lain flat with fear. _Like I've said. The only reason I'm allowed to make a miserable life eating field mice in these walls is because I protect you. Lucius is undeniably the most powerful piece on the board. _

"I don't like it," Ariel harrumphs, glaring into the corner of the room. "Hell's armies have always had a lot of muscle. That's why Michael was trying to negotiate with Lucifer before this mess began in the first place. But this? How can we be sure that he'll leave us alone?"

"Us meaning the she-angels?" Raffe challenges, glaring at Ariel. "Have you ever considered what devastation that bastard might wreck over the rest of your species?"

"Yeah," I pipe up despite myself. "Hell, it might even be as bad as the havoc wrecked on our cities by both of you bitches."

Ariel has the good-naturedness to look ashamed, one arm going to clutch at the other, eyes downcast. Raffe, however, glares at me hotly, his eyes channeling a "you're not helping" vibe if I've ever seen one.

Hugo clears his throat. "Moving on," he says, turning to face his computer, "do you know what happened to Jane? She went poof and I'm not sure where the poof went to."

Theobella smiles slightly. _She's with Scruffy currently. I didn't get too close. She dislikes my presence. _

"I don't blame her," I mumble.

Seeming stricken, Theobella rapidly scales the wardrobe again, puffing out with alarm. _Do you dislike my presence, Penryn? Do you?_

"Um." I stare at her dubiously. "I don't really know who you are anymore. Sorry?"

"Let's focus," Hugo says. "Okay, I'm going to contact Luther. Him and Bay were acquaintances, I'll begin a conversation that way, and fish for information. Raffe, scurry off and console Michael – get on his good side while he's weak and while Uriel is contemplating the universe."

"That seems a bit…" Audiat shakes her head. "Okay, I suppose it'll work. What do you want me to do?"

"Raise morale," Ariel purrs, stepping forward. "You're beloved by the she-angels and coveted by the hes. Keep the spirits high. Console the grieving. Remember what Bryon used to say, little flower?"

Her eyes light up. "'The best fed army wins,'" she recites, nodding. "Keep an army happy with full bellies and they'll take you to victory. Good idea. I'll get on that right away."

She dashes off in a flash, leaving the door open. Raffe prowls after her, glaring at Theobella where she perches. When at last he disappears through the doorway, I heave a sigh of relief – I don't need Raffe pissing a God-dragon off.

"Should I speak with Lord Makiel?" Ariel inquires, blinking repeatedly. Glancing quickly at me, she adds, "I can input the will of the rightful heir of the Nephilim throne, if you wish, Penryn, and try to hammer out a deal."

"Good idea!" Hugo regales. "I mean, if it's okay with you, Penny Poo – you want Ariel to deal with Seraphim politics while we deal with Nephilim politics."

I shrug. "Sure."

"Excellent." Hugo strides towards me, linking our arms together. "Ariel, finalize nothing until we have inspected every inch of it, alright?"

"I shall," Ariel concedes, nodding elegantly, sparing me a graceful smile. "Good luck, you two."

_And I? _ Theobella shifts her weight from side to side. _Is there any particular reason you called me here?_

"Oh, right!" Hugo grins nastily. "Kill off those angel girls, will you? The ones Jane was using? I want the trail to go cold for ol' Michael, and, well, you're the best weapon to do that with. 'Kay?"

_Consider it done._

* * *

"Lucius." Ariel pauses by the balcony window, at the doors thrown open. Her heart stumbles nervously for a few pulses, but then calms. "It isn't wise to stay much longer around these parts. Word will spread. You will be hunted here."

He takes a while to respond. A long while. Ariel frowns, staring at the tense creases in the back of his usually immaculately ironed suit, eyeing the dirt at the bottom hems of his slacks. Her mouth peeks open with shock at the stray string flying free from the stitch line where the arm meets the shoulder.

What she feels is not worry, she convinces herself. There is no reason for her to be worried about this terrible creature. But just as Raphael butters up to the weak Michael, perhaps…

"Is everything alright, Lucius?" she asks, politely but not stiffly. "You seem… not yourself."

"We all have dry spells." Lucius's fingers trail along the silver-trimmed railing. "This balcony is disgusting, by the way. Do you ever clean it?"

"I don't." Ariel cautiously steps forward, and does so again, and again, until she is standing over Lucius's shoulder. "Something is decidedly the matter with you, and, seeing as there is a bit of a manhunt out for you, perhaps this isn't the best place for you to sulk."

He sighs irritably through his nose. "Oh, bother. What are the pigeons going to do to me? Kill me? Good luck with that. I should know, I've tried."

And to that, Ariel has no answer.

He interprets his silence as something other than horror and sympathy, something other than worry, and stands stiff as a board, face still turned away. "You raise a valid point, Ariel. Forgive me for being rude. Good day."

"No, wait," she insists, stepping forward and catching his arm. "You are sad because of Bryon, correct?"

It is Lucius's turn to be silent, a silence that says more than words ever could.

"He always did have a soft spot for you," Ariel recalls, her eyes moistening slightly with the memories. "Do you remember the first angelic ball he took you to? When you were little more than a boy?"

"I had the most massive crush ever on Maion," Lucius says with a gruff chuckle. "It's painful to think about, really."

"Really?" Ariel lifts both eyebrows. In her memory, the pale child had been bashful, but she'd never read into it as anything more than a child's oddities. "Well, I don't believe that went anywhere."

Lucius laughs, less gravelly this time, and it's a strange sound to Ariel's ears, but not a wholly unpleasant one. "Yes, well. She's happy now. That's what matters, isn't it?"

"Hmm." Ariel's eyebrows lifting further. A slow smile spreads over her face. "Lucius? Come along with me, why don't you? I need to take care of some business with the seraphic leaders, and then perhaps we can forge out a treaty between my she-angels and yours."

He pauses for half a second. "I do not believe I am officially yet able to do anything long-lasting, but I can promise you my word."

"That will suffice." Ariel turns heel. "Come along. I'll lead the way."

And, as Lucius turns, his spine straightening and posture correcting into its usual cocky stance, Ariel catches the slight swipe of his pale fingers wiping beneath his eyes over her shoulder. Knowingly, she smiles where he cannot see, her heart heavy with sympathy.

Ariel does not like Lucius. She likes nothing of him. However, she has grieved alone too many times to let him go through the same ordeal.

* * *

"Alrighty." Gently, Hugo shoves me down into his plush armchair. "Penryn, I'm gonna click away on this laptop on the bed for a while, okay? While I'm doing that, I need you to look through this."

"This?" I repeat, confused, a moment before he shoves a giant notebook into my arms. With an oof, I cradle it on my lap, squinting at the name. "What the hell?"

"It's a book of all the notable Nephilim leaders," Hugo explains, snuggling up on his bed, laptop lid swinging open. "If you're going to win their favor, you're going to need to know who they are."

"That… makes sense." My fingers clench around the edges of the cracked cover of the notebook. "How does this government work again? I'm so confused."

"Hmm." Hugo frowns, tipping his head back and forth. "To be honest, there weren't really set rules, which is for sure going to be a downfall. Basically, Bryon was the headman and his word was law, but he had little minions and little chiefs to help carry out his will. He hand-selected each of them and allowed them to do whatever they wanted for the most part, but he was almost a god to these people – they would've thrown down anybody for him. Never any danger of rebellion."

"What about succession?" I wonder, tracing a finger down the cover.

"Well," Hugo says, frowning, "he did choose successors throughout the years, but they all died. With all that's been going on, he didn't have the time to name you as an official successor. Most of those people in there are likely candidates for alternate leaders."

"Memorize them to crush them?"

"Precisely." He winks at me. "You're picking up quickly. Now, listen here – these Nephilim have varying assets and negatives, and I'll give you a brief rundown of what you're looking for. Usually, the more powerful the angel, the more powerful the offspring – for example, Sariel, an angel that had a high standing in the hierarchy and was quite powerful even for his level, fathered arguably the best Nephilim in history, Bryon. That's why fathers and their powers are listed next to their names."

I flip the book open to the first page, opening it up to a _Alkaev, Natasha. _"Okay, this lady is a daughter of Ezekiel, he's… a commander of a legion of heaven. Good?"

"Very good." Cracking a smile, Hugo shakes his head. "Ezekiel is here, actually. He's that sharp angel with the maroon wings. Now, look at Natasha's age – it is Natasha, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it's Natasha." Beneath her parentage is indeed a number, but it's not quite one I can comprehend. "Um, Hugo? Says here she's 2,349 years old."

"Nephilim live long lives," he reminds naggingly, rolling his eyes.

"Right, right." I frown. "Let me guess – the older, the more powerful?"

"As a rule of thumb," Hugo amends, tilting his head back and forth and pursing his lips indecisively. "Really, it depends on their strength. Nephilim grow their whole lives, y'know, and not all of them have slow growth rates like Bryon and Ogden. Both of the titans had enough time to develop bone density to carry themselves and muscle systems, nervous systems, brain systems to adapt as well. Once you start getting into six digits, you've got to be careful and check their beastly attributes."

"Alright." Quickly, I scan the rest of the page – it has scrawled notes about backstory and stature, abilities and lacks of ability, weaknesses and strengths. In the margin, there's a few handwritten notes about how she likes this cake or how she enjoys her hair to be complimented, and there's a spot just behind her ear in her Nephilim form she loves to be scratched, but there's nothing on the Nephilim form itself.

"Hey, Hugo?"

"Next page."

"Oh." Blushing, I flip the page to find a few rough sketches, one of her entire body from the side predominantly sprawled across the page. The woman looks like a leopard, lean and lithe, with a short tail and plates like armor along her spine. A few figures of height and weight are listed. She's twenty-seven feet long but only eighteen high. I try not to think about it too much.

"See, that's the gist of it." Hugo chews on his lip. "All those notes that Bryon scribbled all over on that last page? That's everything you have to know about her persona, her political agenda, and how to win her favor. I tell you, Bryon was a sneaky dog."

I hesitate, fingers ghosting over the date in the corner of the page. 2006. "Hugo? Is my dad in this book?"

Hugo's brow furrows, and he glances up at me, curious. "You know what your dad looked like, Penryn. And it's not like he's got many political agendas from beyond the grave."

"No, I…" I hesitate, tucking my chin a bit. "I just want to know what his Nephilim thing would've looked like. There's… an entire chunk of his life I have no clue about."

The boy is silent for a moment, and, when he lifts his head, I can see the acute sparkle of pity in his eyes. "Of course. It's organized in alphabetical order. Just go to the Y's."

I comply, and, sure as hell, after sifting through the pages, there my father's face is – it's done with gentler lines than the Russian's had, his eyes seeming much more lively, perhaps because of closer acquaintance. There's not much jotted down beneath his name – I suppose I wouldn't need to take many notes on Paige, either.

One note reads that he doesn't work well with people, with a pen of a different color marking several question marks and my mother's name beside that. Another says that he can't swim real well in his Nephilim form. A third suggests that Bryon not bring him to any important peaceful meetings, given a "feisty, asocial" personality.

I crack a smile. Sounds like dad.

Fingers quivering slightly, I flip the page.

He was built a lot like a wolf, I realize. His wings were long and mottled like a hawk's, grey and silvery. Around his neck was a magnificent ruff, almost like a mane. Bryon's notes say that it made it impossible for the fangs of rival Nephilim to reach his live-giving veins in the neck. From behind his ears grew two of the horns I've begun to take as a Young family signature, though his are longer, more slender than Bryon's had been, and a jet black color. His paws had been huge with reinforced padding, excellent for running long distances over rough terrain.

I trail my fingers along his picture longingly. As much as I'm glad I had that separate life away from this chaos as much as possible, I do wonder what it'd been like if he'd raised us with Bryon. How close would I have been with my uncle then? Would I have been able to ride on my dad's back like Bryon says you're able to in his notes?

Reluctantly, I turn to the front of the book, and start again.

I notice a few things while flipping through pages – most of Bryon's officers seem to be female, for one. Most of them seem angelic parents high in the hierarchy, too – like Hugo'd said, more powerful angels create more powerful babies. Most of them fade into a blur of names and features, but a few stand out in my mind.

Anoushka Chada, a woman from India that fought off an entire legion of angels in her youth but took no credit for it, instead becoming a hermit and meditating for thirteen years before Bryon found her and enlisted her. Lin Zhang, a fearsome golden serpent responsible for creating most of the dragon imagery in Chinese culture. Jersey Leeds, one of my own bodyguards and a good friend of Emilio's, the New Jersey Devil.

I'm in the middle of reading about the fierce Scottish Nephilim that occupies the Loch Ness and his furious outbursts if he's called anything remotely similar to the nickname "Nessie" and his son living in lake Champlain when I'm interrupted.

"Hey, you got a special message from Luther," Hugo says, plopping down next to me on the couch, holding out an earbud. "Apparently, he got some demon dude from downstairs to do some digging into Lucius's past wives. This is what he found. Wanna listen to the audios?"

Immediately interested, I turn my eyes to the screen, waiting anxiously as it loads. "Sure. What's it from?"

Hugo shrugs, "Asylums, I think, but I'm not certain."

"Oh."

And, just like that, the recording begins – it's not the best quality, but it's not terrible, either. I listen intently, hoping to figure something out about my future, and Mom's past. A woman speaks in a jittering, nervous tone, responding to questions from a calm, nasally-voiced male.

"Ma'am, do you remember what attacked you that night?" the man asks genteelly.

"Oh, no," the woman trills anxiously. "It wasn't an attack. He approached – he – he stalked – _approached_ me in the middle of a bad situation. My mother – she cheated on my father, and was going to abort. He offered a better way. He told me he could save the baby."

"What did he tell you exactly, ma'am?"

"That he could save the baby and their marriage."

The man pauses, and I hear the rustle of a pen scribbling notes on a paper. "…His exact words?"

"Silly, I can't remember such things!" The woman releases a high peal of nervous laughter. "Actually, I don't remember much more… not thoughts, at least. Just the strangest emotions."

"Oh? What else do you remember, Ms. Kilby?"

"I remember – I remember hearing a little boy screaming. Which is strange, because my mother was going to have a girl. I remember feeling… so angry, so depressed, so desperate. Sir, you have to believe me. The Devil made do it. I know that sounds crazy, I know that I'm probably slightly crazy, but –"

"Calm down, Ms. Kilby!" he warns sternly.

"No!" she shrieks, collapsing into sobs. "It was going to be my sister, why would I do that? I would never attack my mother! _Never!_ It wasn't me! It wasn't me! He moved me like a puppeteer, _he whispered in my ears,_ sir, _whispered things of sorrow. _The Devil told me what a world I was going to give to the child. He made me – _he made me relieve it of this cruel world!_"

The sound of something hitting a wall or the floor thuds over the sound of her voice, followed instantly by a shriek of pain. The man's voice calls out for help, and the first recording ends.

"Hmm." Hugo begins to load the second audio clip. "That was… strange."

"I remember her," I recall, a shudder going down my spine. "She was one of the women that my mom had newspaper clippings about. …I think she clawed the fetus from her mother's stomach after knocking her unconscious. Jesus."

"She needs him," Hugo agrees grimly. "Oh, wait, shut up, the next one's loaded."

"Mrs. Cynthia Jones, do you remember the first time you met the Devil?" the same man asks, sounding sufficiently more patient this time.

"Oh, he isn't the Devil." Instead of a harried, frightened little girl, this one has a strong voice, the vocals you'd expect on an actor or maybe a queen. "The Devil is an idea. The Devil is the physical incarnation of evil. However, since there is no such thing as pure evil, there is no such thing as a Devil."

"Well, then, what do you call him?" the man asks, intrigued. "Does this demon have a name?"

"Careful, now," the woman cautions, "or else they'll throw you into a ward too. He has never told me of any name. If you want my opinion, you can't name something like him. I'm sure civilizations past have titled him many things, many different godlike names, but it seems disrespectful to me, giving something like _that_ a puny mortal name."

"Hmm." The man scribbles something down. "Tell me, Mrs. Jones, what did you feel when you looked into this demon's eyes?"

"Well, it wasn't so much what I felt, but what I saw." Cynthia's strong voice quavers. "It was… agony. I heard a little boy screaming, screaming for his mother. I saw a woman with a face as white as snow, as white as his skin, bleeding terribly. I heard her heartbeat pounding in my ears, listening as it grew louder instead of softer until it faded. The pain was… it was unlike anything I've ever felt before."

"Can you elaborate any further? Did you see anything else?"

"Quit interrupting me, codger! …Yes, actually, I did, though. That agony turned to hatred and a thirst for vengeance. Immensely powerful – maddeningly so. I remember my gaze lifting, and seeing – seeing this dark shape. There were these – these two awful eyes, framed against the moon, both glowing like they held their own light. The terror returned then, and then… well, I suppose it drove me mad. That's why I'm here, correct? I'm mad?"

"Yes, Mrs. Jones, I'm afraid so. Can you tell me anything else about the demon?"

"He's not all that tall, rather short, actually, and is pale as snow. Don't ever, ever look into his eyes. Beware the King of Hearts." The woman chuckles gravely. "Dearie me, sir, but you truly are in over your head on this one. I was the CEO of a successful business, doing great in life, raising three children to be the best children, both athletically and academically. You? You're a sad, old man with nothing but his work. He's going to use that."

"Right." A slight venom enters his words. "Before I go, Mrs. Jones, can you tell me why you murdered your children?"

"Honestly, I'm frankly surprised you didn't start with that question." I can hear the smirk in her voice. "I don't regret it, sir. After feeling that poor little boy's emotions coursing through me… no, I couldn't bear to let my children live. I would rather let them die than feel that way. To think that they would be subject to such terror, such pain, drove me mad, as they say. I would go back in an instant's time and do it again.

"Because that blue-eyed man is still out there, you know. That's why the demon's still searching. He promised to save my children from him. I only had to deliver them into his arms. Now, I advise you leave this place, and quite quickly."

"…Why, Mrs. Jones?"

"Beware the King of Hearts, sir."

And, with a noise like a blade being drawn, the audio cuts off.

"Damn, now that woman was crazier than the first," Hugo chuckles. "Who the flying fuck is so proud of their children, then goes and murders them? Who the flying fuck would do it again? Some of Lucius's bitches are just the best."

"Hey!" I jab him in the arm.

"Well, yeah, no offense to you. You know…" He gnaws thoughtfully at his knuckles, staring broodingly at the screen. "I've never really paid much attention to Lucius's wives. They've all seemed like nutjobs. But I think… maybe these nutjobs are the key to unlocking Lucius's past. After all, what do we know? We know that Lucius's mother was a Nephilim, and that Bryon felt personally responsible for the boy's turning. Which blue-eyed bastard do we know that would kill a Nephilim mother and invoke Bryon's sympathy?"

I turn to him, eyes wide. "You don't mean…?"

"Oh, I mean." Hugo grins. "This King of Hearts business, too. Wonder what the hell that means? Oh – listen. Oh – _oh_."

"Mrs. Young," the man asks calmly, "would you like to tell me what you experienced?"

"No," she snaps churlishly, sounding suspicious and spiteful. "I wouldn't. Where are my children? Where are my daughters? What have you done with them? Return them to me! Right now!"

"We'll gladly reunite you with your family as soon as you answer a few questions of mine. Now, tell me, Mrs. Young, were you visited by a demon dressed in all white?"

"Who isn't?"

A small, startled laugh escapes the man's throat. "Me, for one. Did the demon offer you anything, Mrs. Young? Did you agree to do anything for him, or did he agree to do anything for you?"

"A hell-beast killed my husband," my mother answers sincerely, "and he brought him back to life. I swore myself to him in return. And my daughters – he graciously offered to save them. He told me of a great war on its way, and of terrible destinies. He said that he might not be able to save them, but that he would try with all his heart, should I allow him too."

"…I take you did allow him to?"

My mother giggles. "Of course! If you could save your heart from the pits of hell, wouldn't you?"

"Frankly, Mrs. Young," the man sighs, "I think you delivered your daughters into the palms of the Devil. But my opinions don't matter. Tell me, was it the demon that forced you to mangle your daughter's legs? Was it a vision from a glance in his eyes that made you feel obligated to do that to your child?"

"Oh, no," my mother chuckles. "I looked in his eyes years ago. No, it was only when I realized that the demon's father turned his eyes upon her that I did it."

I lurch forward and slam my shaking hand against the pause button.

"No," I whisper, shaking my head slowly. "You did it because you didn't want Lucius raping her. That's… that's what he told me."

"Maybe… not," Hugo says slowly, giving me a squeeze, fingers inching across the keyboard until he unpauses it again.

"Tell me," the man continues, his interest fluctuating in and out of focus, "who is the demon's father?"

"The father of all demons. Your father."

"…Are you referring to the Devil, Mrs. Young?" He pauses. "You're saying that the Devil was lusting after your six, seven year old daughter?"

"That's correct. How many times do you want me to clarify?"

"I see." The man's voice is queer, strained. "So, then, the white demon had nothing to do with your daughter's ailment? He had no part in her crippling – there wasn't a bird that whispered in your ear. It was your idea to save her from the Devil, and your idea only."

"Well, of course that's not true." My mother sighs. "Honestly, do I have to spell this out for you? He had to tell me about it – how else would I know? I wanted to kill my poor Paige, of course. Damned demon shot me down. He told me to leave her be, and that he would take care of it – but I couldn't do that! Leave my daughter's life in the hands of some demon with parental problems? No!"

"So you crippled her."

"I never said that."

The man sighs, sounding like he's growing weary of my mother's games. "Tell me, Young, when you met his gaze, did you see anything? Feel anything?"

"He showed me that sometimes, death is more merciful than life. He showed me that if someone had murdered that child, thousands more would survive today, and his own happiness would've been insured. After all, the innocent would've risen to heaven, and our lives would've played out without tampering, without misery. The knowledge was satisfying, but it had a high price. I understand that you're not willing to pay it."

"Oh? And what makes you think that?"

"Because he's here." My mom's pleasant, matter-of-fact tone sends shivers down my spine. "I'm afraid I've said too much. I'm afraid you've pried too much. You've been digging for answers, doctor, but answers have a price – and I don't think you're willing to pay that price. Tell me. Are you?"

"Mrs. Young, I'm not going to go crazy."

My mother's last words are a whisper, soft and lilting. "_Aren't you?_"

A quiet, awkward silence spreads over the area once the audio clicks and then shuts off. I stare, uncomprehending, at the screen before me, shaking my head slowly, and Hugo tilts his head up and closes his eyes, murmuring to himself in another language.

"Jesus Christ, I loved your dad, and I love you," Hugo sighs, groaning softly, "but he sure could pick 'em. What. A. Nutjob."

"There's one more," I whisper hoarsely, jabbing a finger at the screen. "Let's… listen to that."

"You sure you don't want to talk…?"

"What is there to talk about?" Slowly, I shake my head, swallowing thickly. "Nothing. Just another twisted version of my mom's story with Lucius. Just another reason to stay the hell away from him."

"Alright." Hugo loops an arm over my shoulder and presses his face into my hair affectionately, giving me a quick squeeze. "Lemme know if this becomes too much, okay?"

"Okay." I cuddle closer to his chest, seeking out his calm heartbeat. "Play it."

"This is Dr. Carlsberg, logging the first conversation with…" The doctor, a new man, stutters, taking a shaky breath. "…Dr. Hank Baldwin, previous leader of this operation. Dr. Baldwin, can you hear me?"

A silence hisses through the earbud. The longer it lasts, the more my hackles stand on end. I tense up in the chair, curling my fingers, glaring down at the floor, terrified of what may come and yet waiting eagerly for it.

"Nooooooooooo," rasps a voice through the earbud, rattling through my bones with a tone that is not a growl or a hiss or a moan, but somewhere in between. "Not you. Not you."

"Not me?" Carlsberg sounds uncertain. "Hank, what are you talking about? I'm going to ask you a few questions, alright?"

A sound like someone puffing out a heavy breath into the mic puffs through the earbud, making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

"You need to leave," Hank whines. "Bury the program. Bury it. He knows. He knows. He knows… everything."

"No, Hank, we're not abandoning the program," Carlsberg sighs. "Tell me what you saw when you saw the demon. Tell me what he looked like. Tell me what his eyes looked like."

"He… looked like the beginning and end of everything," Hank whispers softly. "I was expecting a monster that was terrible. But he was beautiful. His eyes held the world and the universe and it was too much. Too much for me. But that doesn't mean he wasn't terrible."

He breathes onto the mic again.

"Noooooooooo." Hank growls like a wild creature. "He is terrible. And he will hunt you. He is a merciless predator as steadfast and swift as the Devil himself. Running will not help you. Submit to his divine will. He will save us. He will pry open Heaven's vault and let the souls run free unto the land again."

"Hank, I'm sorry, I don't understand. What is the demon's purpose in doing this to all of these women?"

"He doesn't know himself. He's lost. He's searching for a star. Or he was. He was. He's found her now."

"Found who? Who has he found?"

"He will treasure her and care for her and take her under his wing. He shall protect her and love her as she once and will love him. Perhaps it is sad. Perhaps it is unbecoming. He does not care. His love now flows."

"Who, Hank? Dammit, who?"

An eerie silence. Hank breathes into the mic again, but this time, it's shuddering, frightened.

"He's behind you, John," the mad doctor whispers. "Oh, my friend, stay so impeccably still. Stay so –"

There's the sound of fumbling, a muffled shout, and then the click of the audio tape ending. I stare listlessly at the screen, wishing that another message could load. Questions play through my mind in answerless circuits: Why had my mother lied about Paige? Why is Lucius collecting Wives? Who is this person he's found now? Am I doomed to go mad, mad like these women?

"Whoa." Hugo takes in a sharp breath. "He… attached a few photos to his email. Do you want to look at those, maybe, before we…?"

"Sure. Sure, yeah… let's do that." I shake my head to clear it, but it doesn't really work.

The first picture is of a grand, beautiful mosaic type thing, upon a stone wall. It reminds me of the Chaza Bryon had took us to in order to escape Ariel's cherubs. Instead of anything beautiful, however, it had an image of a woman with brilliantly bronze metallic wings cradling a tiny boy Lucius's head in her hands, her expression anguished and contorted. Lucius's eyes are huge and black, and a tear seems to be travelling down his cheek. I notice that Lucius seems to be in his current form, forked tongue peeking between his teeth, and that the woman's eyes aren't locked onto his.

"Stripped of his title." Hugo points towards text at the bottom of the mosiac. "That's what it says. I wonder what title it could be."

"Is that the lady he was looking for, I wonder?" I ask quietly.

"That's the Clockwork Angel, actually," he says, pointing towards her wings and then towards two brooches on her chest I had failed to notice. "Symbology's all in check."

"Maybe… the Clockwork Angel is the lady he was looking for."

Hugo turns to me, his eyes curious.

Events pour back to me, each fitting in its individual puzzle. "When the Tyab'la… took over Bryon…" I swallow, the memory still tainted with sadness and horror in my mind. "She said that they had to be united. Her parents. Her parents… is it possible that they're Black Wolf and the Clockwork Angel?"

_Yes, it's possible. I know that. But he doesn't._

Hugo nods slowly. "And that'd mean that Lucius's beloved is the Clockwork Angel. Because he knows how it ends? And he wants to save her?"

"That'd tick off Black Wolf for sure," I mutter darkly.

"That makes a lot of sense." Hugo gnaws on his knuckles again. "But before we come to a conclusion, let me check out the other photos."

This time, I'm greeted by an odd trio – in the middle stands Bryon, full and broad and with all of his glory, painted in varying shadows of brown and bronze. On his right is Lucius, all but swallowed with a beautiful black garb, his eyes wide and gorgeously deep, his face holding regal, perhaps the way it would've been without his curse. On his left is a man I have never seen before, one with piercing blue eyes the color of my father's and a pair of sleek black wings. His horns crown him as a member of the Young family, curling up from his thick hair, black and sharp as razors.

"There's no title on this one," Hugo hums, his tone more careful. "Only names. Bryon…" He taps a tiny scroll wrapped around my uncle's feet. "Bertholdt…" A small strip of paper curls around one of the blue-eyed man's legs. "And Bryon Jr." His finger lands on small script beside Lucius's open hand.

"Bryon Jr.?" I repeat with a yelp.

"It was a common thing to do, name your child after Bryon," Hugo soothes. "Still is, in some cultures. Let's not freak out too much, okay?"

"…Okay. Who's Bertholdt?"

"I have no idea, to be perfectly honest." Hugo shrugs. "But this picture honestly gives us nothing. Onto the next one?"

Reluctantly, I nod.

The third is a cryptic photo. It's less a painting as it is a crest – a regal crest, with two wolves on either side and snakes entwining around their hind legs, fangs buried in their knees. Clenched in their muzzles and flying above the crest is a scroll, holding small words dashed with symbols.

"That's the Young family crest, the one they used back in the medieval times when those were a thing." Hugo frowns, hovering the mouse over the banner. "That's in a demonic language – sometimes Bay would speak it – right after he'd just banged me so hard his brain wasn't working right – or vice versa, depending on the night – I can't quite…"

"What do the wolves mean?" I trace my fingers over the jagged lines of their manes, of their furious, bulging eyes. "They're not the Clockwork Angel's wolves, are they?"

"No, they're not. Could be a different link of the Young line, one that I've never heard about – apparently, before my time, Sariel and Thea got at it a few more times, but the kids all died. I think I read something once about how the creatures that looked like dragons received more of Sariel's genes and those that looked more like canines were Thea's – your dad, remember? This could be a crest for the wolf half of the family, but there weren't any alive when this crest was active."

"What does it say?"

"Well…" He sighs, frustrated. "I think it says… 'Never forget the broken –' chain? Link? Strain? Something like that. 'They wait to reget' – no, that's 'regain' – 'their former glory.'"

"That sounds like it's talking about… the Young family." I frown. "Bitterly. Bitterly talking about the Young family. Like… an outcast."

"An outcast." Hugo nods slowly. "One last photo. Let's wait to analyze until after that."

I nod. For some reason, a sense of dread fills the pit of my stomach, heavying with every passing second. And then…

"Oh, fuck. Fuck."

"That's…" I shake my head slowly. "How is that possible?"

It's a picture of Nephilim, caught mid-stride from the side as it sprints over a bed of snow. It's form is remarkably wolfish in demeanor, but with a large, fluffy ruff, almost like a mane around its neck, perhaps to protect its life-giving veins. Long, delicate wings are half-unfurled by its size, as if the creature is about to take flight. From behind its ears, black horns grow, less thick than my uncle's, more slender and less curling.

"Jesus Christ, is that Lucius?" I whisper, my throat filling up.

"I think so," Hugo says. "I think so. God, Penryn, he's the spitting image of your dad."

And he is, in his wild, feral appeal – scrawnier, for certain, and his coat, though white, seems much dirtier, but he is almost exactly alike. The more I think, the more I wonder – what would his face have looked like if it hadn't been so angular, not quite as sharp? And had his eyes as a child not been bronze?

The truth stills my heart. A mesh of fear, uncertainty, and the strangest pang of hope ache in my gut.

"Bryon Jr," I repeat quietly. "Bryon Jr. Young?"

"I –" Hugo falters. "I think so. God. A link severed from the chain or whatever… Lucius is part of the Young family. A forgotten cousin. An… outcast. And I've never known it. Bryon never told me."

_Every family has their dark little secrets. _Hugo and I both whip around to see Theobella perched on the railing of the balcony, staring in through the window with narrowed eyes. _Lucius is yours. Bryon kept his lips sealed, Hugo never bothered to learn, and you, Penryn, never even wondered. Now? Now it's coming back to bite you in the ass._

* * *

**OOOOOOOO. OOOOOOoooooooooOOOOOOOOOO. **

_**Bryon Jr Young. Lucius Young. **_

**Could it be? **

**POLL: Um I have no idea honestly. It's late. Write something for me in the comments idk**

**EDIT: One of you bastards on Guest got it. You got it, congratulations. However, I deleted the comment so others wouldn't see the glory. So. Like. Check. See if it was you.**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


	73. Chapter Seventy-Two

**Chapter Seventy Two**

"Now, you owe me an explanation," Ariel says lecturingly, shutting the door behind her so carefully the latch does not even click. "I've spent the last thirty minutes dealing with a rambling Hugo about how you're a Young."

The demon lifts one eyebrow, but his eyes, hidden by his reflective shades, remain trained on the boring white ceiling above. "Oh? Well. It was only going to take so long for them to pull their heads out of their asses."

Ariel regards him skeptically. "I haven't seen Hugo like this for quite some time, Lucius. The last time I saw him with that gleam in his eyes, he was a child and even then –"

"He formulated a strategy to blow up the angelic aerie, yes, I know." Lucius sounds begrudgingly impressed. "He'd do well to keep his nose out of this. But I'm done trying to dictate the future."

"You sound like you've done it before."

"Have you ever wondered why I'm quite so wretched, inside and out?" A spiteful smirk pulls at his lips, but it seems almost sad. "There is nothing more damaging than finding out you were the villain all along. None of Daddy's magic could've done the number on me I've done to myself."

"I correct myself. You sound…" Ariel searches for a word. "Pathetic."

"Ooo, yes, I quite agree." His smirk turns into a nasty grin. "Go on, do it. Kick me out to the curb for raining on your parade. I dare you."

Annoyance makes Ariel's throat thick. Anger, thick and hot, pulses through her in one quick flash, but she knows better than to let it control her. Swallowing, she stiffens her neck and walks regally forward, allowing her dress to flutter around her ankles.

"Whatever's bothering you," Ariel says in a formal tone – formal, not stiff nor concerned – "you need to either talk to someone about it, or shut the hell up and skulk off with your tail between your legs. Take actions or don't. I won't put up with all your miserable moping."

"Talking equals an entire pity party I'd rather avoid," Lucius growls, linking his hands over his stomach.

"Oh, boo hoo," Ariel scoffs. "I have half a mind to throw you off my Triangle with your wings duct-taped to your sides. Get it out and feel better or feel awful for centuries more. Your decision, but I do have duct-tape."

"Noted." After a beat of silence, Lucius swings himself upright with a heavy sigh, his feet hitting the tile with elegant clicks of his heels, but he doesn't stand; rubbing at the bridge of his nose, he stares down and into an empty vase. Ariel ghosts around the couch, her footsteps soft and unheard, coming to stand behind him and stare down at the tense muscles causing his bony wings to clench and unclench in agitation.

"If you're willing to listen to my little mope festival," Lucius says quietly, "I would like to get it off my chest. All this shit about toxic relationships – well. I don't know who I can trust. And the worst you could do is tell Penryn who I am, who I am really but – I'm hoping I'll persuade you not to."

"I'm willing to listen," Ariel insists. Her words sound almost cold, she realizes in a half-second's span of time, too formal for a situation in which the child seems to be baring his heart. Ignoring the repulsion threatening her gag reflex, she reaches down and rests a hand on his cold shoulder. He goes rigid as a board, flinching away from her touch, but she does not falter; a second later, he relaxes, and eases back beneath it.

"Please," Lucius whispers, his words hollow and rasping, his back hunching, "please, don't tell Penryn."

"Penryn?" Her hand slips away from him, going limp at her side. "What does she have to do with this?"

"Everything, Ariel. Everything."

* * *

_The gently shifting images upon the stained glass seem almost aware of our presence. Though I know they are not, they cannot be, for they are mere glass and iron brought together in intricate patterns, it seems that the intricate murals all seem rapt. It seems that the flood of children racing to safety flinch at every bellowed word, that the child Bryon upon the wall hugs his sister's beheaded body closer every time Black Wolf snarls, that the impassively terrible figure hovering above a steeple lifts his eyes as if to meet mine every time I spit out a furious reply._

_"__You owe me answers!" I shout at him, fists balling by my sides. "You've been skirting around this issue, been showing me small visions – tiny hints – what the hell is Lucius? Show me, dammit!"_

I shall not, girl, and you should do well to remember that you are mine! _He turns on me with a rabid snarl, white fangs unsheathing from the flat black with the same eerie dimension as his wings. _In this domain, I can crush your soul and smash it into a million pieces!

_"__I've spoken out a million times before. Now it really matters! Why can't you tell me anything? What's stopping you?"_

As if you'd understand, you barely sentient sack of flesh and fluid! _His blue eyes burn with fury. _I am decided. The history you have asked for has been denied.

_"__Then –" Frustratedly, I shake my head back and forth. "Fine! At least tell me – if Lucius is the cousin of Theobella and is also a Young, does that mean that Theobella is a Young?" _

_He snarls sneeringly, bristling. _Why else would Bryon pity her when she was a shivering child? Or fall to her lures as a tantalizing god? He placed family on too high a pedestal.

_"__But you're her father." Warily, I circle him, flicking my gaze between the wolf and the image of Raffe striking down one of the many Nephilim children – the first fatal group. "Does that mean…?"_

_Balefully, he turns his gaze onto me. _Do your own calculations, human.

* * *

"You understand that Raffe and Penryn are… lovers, correct?" Lucius asks hesitantly.

Ariel cocks her head to one side curiously. "Yes, but, considering the hurdle you've added to their relationship, lovers sounds far too… sensual."

"You know about that, too." Lucius's lips are curling into his wry smile, Ariel can feel it in his tone, in his aura. "That was my first mistake." He hangs his head, cradling it between two hands and laughing hollowly like someone beating a stick on the inside of an empty barrel, echoing and tinny and cold. "Because oh, Ariel. I don't understand love at all."

She stares at him, stares down at the shoulders that've just begun to quiver with knowledge she doesn't at all comprehend. "I… I'm not following you," she hedges.

"I thought that if I could end the sexual attraction… If I could forbid any sort of contact… Raphael would get bored. He would move on and find another woman. I never, ever would've dreamed that the already established connection would've been enough…"

"You made that deal… to keep them apart?" Ariel shakes her head, bemused. "Why?"

"I'm getting there, but in what world would it be alright for a princess of Nephilim to love her hunter?" Lucius shakes his head listlessly. "But. Say for a second… that things in the future turn out alright. That Raffe wins this debate. Say for a second Penryn succeeds and leads her country. Suppose that perhaps, in all the mishap and scandal that happens when people who lead separate groups fall for one another, they manage to push through, and one day, they want to push it past an emotional bond."

"You'll stop them," Ariel says slowly. "You've made it so that they're doomed physically. There's no way that'll happen."

"Ariel… I'm not the only God that walks the earth." He throws his head back, and she can feel his gaze through the mirrored lenses. "Say that thousands of years from now, with Penryn having absorbed Nephilim blood to keep her eternally youthful and leading her nation, they are certain of their chemistry and bonded through marriage and they want… well. Say that they're happy to give both the Watchers and the Wives one more member. You're a clever girl; how would they go about that?"

"Are you saying that…" Ariel's eyes blow wide. "Could Theobella negate the details of your deal somehow? Would she do something like that?"

Lucius chuckles. "She would if she could. But say she found a loophole in our agreement."

"Say she found a loophole?"

"Yes."

Ariel arches a brow. "Forgive me for interrupting, but what does this have to do with your sop story? This all seems like it has little to nothing to do with you."

A scowl drags the corners of his lips downwards. "The loophole would be to use the unique talent of Theobella's to travel to a time where I didn't yet exist. Where I hadn't even been a thought yet. Somewhere – sometime – I couldn't even reach, couldn't manage to tear the peace apart."

"They would –" Ariel's eyes widen. "No! But if Raphael was Messenger and Penryn was Queen surely they couldn't just – abandon their jobs!"

Lucius laughs almost merrily. "That's the glory of time travel, isn't it? They would be able to escape me and my" – he splutters bitterly – "my _curse _and be back in time for tea, a tiny Raffe Jr. and Little Penryn by their sides. Picture that world."

"I am." Ariel's eyebrows wrinkle together. "And I'm getting the sense that something in this agreement went very, very wrong."

"Oh, yes," Lucius says pleasantly. "Penryn brought her sister. That's what went wrong."

* * *

_"__You're a Young," I repeat, my mind stubbornly refusing to accept the information being fed. The Raphael in the window beside me seems positively antsy. "You're – you married a Young."_

There's a reason our family is called the most powerful in the world. _He curls his lip again, baring those frighteningly bright teeth of his. _We spread out to the farthest reaches of history. It's a terrible thing. We really are like an infestation, a parasite latched onto the entirety of civilization.

_"__But –" I cut off, frowning. "Are you Bertholdt? You're not Bertholdt, are you?" _

_And here, the wolf goes slack, his lips folding back over his fangs and his shadow muscles losing their tension. With a curious, canine snuffle, he inches closer, wings wiggling with excitement. _What do you know of Bertholdt?

_More than a little taken aback by his rapid change in temperament, I step away from his puffing nose. "Um. That he's a Young? Why? Is he dead? Did you know him?"_

On the contrary – _uneasily, he settles back on the balls of his feet, ears flicking uncertainly – _he hasn't been born yet. However, when you get a family as vast as the Young and with such a high mortality rate – with so many long-living, suffering souls watching their loved ones perish – you grow comfortable with those living in other ages. You meet through incorrect segments of time and space aligning, usually at the hand of my Angel or Theobella, and you take solace knowing that they are much like you. Bertholdt is a ghost from our future. He is a favorite of mine.

_"__Oh?" Fascinated with this new facet of his personality, I lean forward, eager to hear more. "What about him?"_

Well, the time I first met him, he was sent back to save Bryon, the founder of our fine family, from an assassination attempt of Michael's. He chose to do this by seducing the archangel and making a doe-eyed lover out of him.

_"__How did that help his situation at all?" I tilt my head to one side, confused. "I don't – I don't understand."_

_Black Wolf turned his eye to me and grunted out a sharp bark of a laugh. _I just told you that Michael and Bertholdt had very gay sex and you didn't so much as bat an eye.

_Waving a hand dismissively, I mumble, "I don't care what that feathery jackass is into, or this future family member. Hugo took any homophobia I had and squashed it. How would that help at all? If he asked Michael to call it off, Michael – he's smart enough to know when he's been conned, I'd wager. It wouldn't work."_

Precisely. _Black Wolf sits in front of me, and, for the first time, he feels warm – not a fire that burns or even fills the bones with the heavy sensation of peace that comes with its gentle heat, but a small glow. _It's where Lucius first coined the infamous snap – up until Bertholdt's infiltration, it'd never been used, never even thought up. That way, his partner in crime – you, actually – knew that no one else would snap before you and signal him.

_"__Me?"_

Yes, you. This is not the first time our paths have crossed. _He cocks his head. _Does that alarm you?

_"…__Maybe." I swallow, trying to wrap my head around this information. "Does that mean that Bryon knew me? Lucius?"_

I believe Bryon knew of you. And Lucius… yes. _Black Wolf's hackles rise at the reminiscence of a bad memory. _Yes, he knew you very well.

* * *

"Penryn's sister?" Ariel stands still, tall and uncertain, shifting from foot to foot like a tower unsteady upon its foundations. "Paige, was it? What does she matter?"

"You have met the girl, haven't you?" Lucius tilts his head to the side, his gaze seemingly trained on a blank wall. "She loves her sister very much. And Penryn loves her, too. Do you think that she'd have Penryn go alone? Certainly not."

Ariel is uncomfortable. She'd thought she'd known the situation in the slightest detail, thought he'd just whine about the difficulties of his childhood, bewail the unspoken grief for whoever has injured his heart. This is not what she expected at all. So she studies him with a heart that does not quite wish to hear this, a heart that recognizes his agony and does not want it thrust upon herself, and mind struggling to understand what it is that he speaks of.

"Paige is quite a pretty girl, you'd have noticed," Lucius says quietly. "Even now, as a child. I fear for her walking alone in these halls now that there are he-angels about. She only grows more beautiful with age, she –" His breath catches, and he tucks his head against his own shoulder. "I remember she was gorgeous. Truly, a sight to behold, outshining her sister in grace and poise."

"You knew Paige, then?" Ariel shifts her weight. "How did you know Paige?"

White hands curl through soft, white locks of hair, distressing any guise of a style. "Oh, yes, you could say that." He laughs that hollow laugh again, lacing it this time with a grieving keen. "Pretty girl like that – well. She caught the attention of many undesirables. And with her primary protectors horny lovebirds… No way to defend herself…"

"Oh no," Ariel whispers, eyes widening.

Lucius makes a choking noise. He rakes his hands through his hair, lines of distress in his back and in his wings rock-hard, causing him to quiver and quake violently. It's a state of undoing she'd never believed him capable of, shivering and terrified upon someone else's couch, so beyond this world that he no longer cares what she sees him like.

"I was never supposed to happen, Ariel," he whispers at last, voice a raspy hiss. "I am… a mistake. An error. In every conceivable way."

* * *

_"__Is that why he acts so weird around me, then?" I question cautiously. "I mean – he knows me, or a future me. What – what does he do about that?"_

I cannot say. _Black Wolf's ears flick about, as if he's uncomfortable about the topic. _It's said that you inspired him, though, with your snap of fingers. No one had heard such a noise. Bertholdt was a pet, almost, a Nephilim heeling at Michael's heel and all were curious and came close to see him – they knew nothing of what went on behind closed doors. Lucius was wary and watched from afar.

_"__What happened?"_

You, evidently, and you snapped your fingers. _A rumble issues from low in his throat, perhaps a growl of distrust or satisfaction or even respect. _Bertholdt was not Michael's pet. He had been trained to attack mercilessly the moment he heard such a noise – Nephilim are, of course, animal in many ways. You snapped and his eyes narrowed to slits and he attacked so savagely and so quickly that all those surrounding him as if he were an animal in a zoo were dead. Hardly any were spared.

_"__How did that discourage Michael from attacking Bryon?"_

It was the last time Michael's personal army had taken a hit, and it destroyed the archangel's will. Lucius had observed the great damage it did upon the archangel then and used it against him once more.

_"__In his power play, yeah." I nod a few times, lost in thought, my gaze trained upon the great creature's paws upon the stone. "He was so angry. It'd make sense for him to lash out like that. Just… scary, y'know?"_

_Black Wolf's ears flick decidedly backwards, a rumbling growl deep in his throat. _He is frightening, isn't he? He got in here once – an impenetrable fortress, or so I was told. Recently, too. Threw me for a loop, it did.

_"__Why did he come here?" I ask softly, watching a tiny Bryon dragon chasing a butterfly on stained glass, avoiding the Black Wolf's gaze. "What could he possibly need here?"_

_Black Wolf shifts, turning his back upon me and starting down the long hallway. _He came first to see Bryon off, but lingered in a nearby hall. Perhaps you'd like to see…?

_Meekly, I follow behind him. "Yes, please. I think… I need to see that."_

* * *

"You're telling me that you're the son of Paige – _Paige Young _– the little girl prancing around my aerie." Ariel whips around the edge of the couch, her steps hurried by a strange mixture of candid fury and pity. "A future Paige gone back in time with her sister so that Raphael and Penryn could make children. Do you realize how utterly ridiculous you sound?"

Her words provoke hardly any response. Lucius merely looks at her, and something about it seems so tired, so bone-achingly weary that it makes her pause.

"Yes, actually," Lucius sighs, "I do." He pulls at his collar to loosen his tie and slumps back against the couch. "That was my childhood, Ariel. My happy childhood. An unwanted child. Hated for what I would become. And – " His fingers clench into fists. "The worst of them all was Raphael."

Ariel hesitates, battling with disbelief and confusion. More than anything, she wants to point her finger and call him a lunatic, and yet…

"You would've been the reason he'd been forced into that situation in the first place," she realizes slowly. "He'd realize that because he'd lusted over his Daughter of Man so much, he'd inadvertently created _you_, the biggest boundary between the two of them."

"You're getting it, you clever girl, you." Lucius grins, but it lacks the nastiness. "He despised me and all the love in the world from my mother and my aunt could not make up for the bitterness he hated me with. It was a conflicted sort of childhood – Paige showed me her world of flowers and beauty and elegance and Penryn hers of strategy and family and the delicate art of war, and from them I grew, but Raffe was the first one to ever teach me how to fight.

"And things were flawed. But sometimes, it doesn't matter. I still remember those years fondly, chasing my cousin through orchards of swaying willow trees, racing every morning to a duck pond to be the first to frighten off the birds. Things weren't good. Things weren't perfect. But I was strangely happy, strangely content with it all. I knew no other way to live, isolated as I was, and a creature eventually grows accustomed to its confinements. It wasn't a perfect system. But… oh well.

"We were happy in the oddest way. I was happy. It didn't matter what he said, because I loved him anyway, I loved our cottage, I loved Penryn and Emilio and everyone else."

Ariel studies him, and, the longer she does so, the more features upon him she can see that resemble the Young family. It unnerves her, now that she can see it. She knows not who the girls shall be when they mature, but it sounds like them, and it certainly sounds like Raphael.

"Something happened, didn't it?" she says quietly, studying him. "You were trying to keep Raphael and Penryn apart. So far… there's no real reason to do that other than selfishness. I don't think you're a selfish man."

A long beat of silence. A quiet stretch between the two of them. And every muscle that had gone slack with momentary relief, with the belief that she was understanding and quiet and not judging him for the moment at least, tenses up again. He throws his head back, lips curling over his gums to reveal clenched teeth.

"Things changed," Lucius growls, low in his throat.

"What changed?"

"…Everyone has a different reaction to looking into my eyes, Ariel." Lucius flings himself off the couch and paces agitatedly back and forth in front of her, eyes trained downwards, needlelike teeth gnashing against each other. "Some have clarity. Some receive visions. Some believe they're divinely granted the will to do whatever the fuck they want. Some simply go mad.

"I don't know when and I don't know how. All I know is that one day, Raffe and Penryn departed arm in arm to a meeting, happy, cheerful, smiling and in love – saccharinely so. And he came back…"

Lucius's lip curls. He quivers and twitches, muscles spasming, but not aggressively. Like a creature forced to watch something it doesn't wish, like one that merely wants to flee. Horror.

"What happened when Raffe came back, Lucius?" Ariel asks patiently, managing to hide her raging curiosity behind professionalism. "Why are you so afraid of him?"

* * *

_It's different than the others. Instead of a window, it's a sword mounted upon a rainbow glass pedestal, its hilt ready to be grasped and the memories within seeming to leer at me, daring me to touch it. _

_"__This is it, then?" _

Take caution. _His lips peel back into a distrustful snarl. _This is not a place of happy memories. Nor is it only memories. It is – these are the collections taken from a sword's memory, Penryn. Like an angel sword. A corrupted blade. I do not know what you will experience.

_I look back to the sword, taking it in. Why had Lucius selected this blade? It almost certainly was once an angel's weapon, with the double-edged design and simple, elegant hilt. However, its luster has been lost to the bitter erosion of time. A fragment is missing, slicing through the middle of the metal, as if it'd shattered. Rust cankers at the edges of the blade, and the leather on the handle is frayed and even moldy. If it were anything but an angel sword, I'd doubt it has the ability to cut melted butter. _

_Something… almost seems foreboding, about it. For a reason I can't quite explain, a pluck of terror pangs in my gut. Swallowing, I steel myself, and kneel down. My hand hovers over the hilt for a moment. Should I…?_

_"__So be it, right? I need to know this."_

_Taking a deep breath, I grip the hilt of the sword._

* * *

"I am not afraid of Raphael," Lucius breathes. "I am afraid of what he becomes."

* * *

_Almost immediately, it shoots through me. I gasp, bolting to my feet but not dropping the sword, as a flash sizzles through my consciousness, a flash of fury and anger and confusion the likes of which I've never felt from Raffe's sword. Unpleasant tingles race from my fingers to my elbow, prickling up towards my shoulder. An involuntary shiver rattles at my spine. _

_Panting, I hold the sword up towards the light. Sweat beads at my brow. The sword's consciousness isn't just present or even active – it's attacking. _

_I groan low in my throat, closing my eyes and tilting my head up. My dry throat itches, but when I swallow, it only seems to get drier. Head beginning to spin, I risk a glance down at the sword, down upon the dull silver metal, meeting my eyes in the fuzzy, distorted reflection. _

_And then the sword attacks again. In half a second, it wins. I no longer see the stone hallway. _

_But… it isn't like Pooky Bear's immaculate visions, either. Images are jagged – sometimes seen from the wielder's eyes, sometimes seen from what almost seems like the sword's viewpoint, and other times, omnipresent. They're hardly steady, either, thrown together in a mixture of sights and sounds and smells and screams. _

An eagle screeches. I see Lucius laughing, seeming truly happy at his current age, the age I know him as, lifting a wine glass to someone and then – then he looks over, and I cannot see who, but his face falls into horror.

A stinging pain stabs at my wrist. I'm faintly aware of screaming.

And then… and then…

And then my sister.

"I know you," she whispers, age lines crinkling as she smiles weakly, thick, black hands around her neck, the same color as the long hair tumbling over her shoulders. So beautiful. So beautiful.

"I know you. You would never hurt me." I am aware of thinking that she is almost funny. I am aware of blaming her for what I am. Who I am. Nephilim, Nephilim, Nephilim, they did this to me. Mad thoughts rage through my brain and I cannot stop them, for they are not my own, they are his, they are ours, but I do not _like them _and they do not go away. "Please. I've known you… all my life. I won't fight you."

A terrible roar rips through dark woods. Crows scatter. A tiny Lucius clutches an even tinier Belle to his chest, hiccupping a sob of fear.

"I won't fight you," my sister whispers, her eyes growing large as she slides up the tree she'd been braced against, her voice growing breathy and faint as he – I – we, lift her up, suspending her only by our hands around her throat. "Remember who you are, remember, please –"

Her eyes flicker upwards, her pale hands go to claw at her throat, and then she looks out, we can see it in her dark eyes, a flash of white, too pure, too bright, and her face goes from fear of death to hysterical panic.

"BRYON!"

Darkness, terrible darkness. My heart is hammering. I can feel myself swinging by my master's side, and can almost catch the blue of his eyes, but I know something is wrong. What is wrong? What is wrong?

There lies the maiden in a white dress, and there lies her child in white skin, sobbing. He paws at her clothing and cradles her head, watching her eyes dim. And before us the little bronze dragon, shrinking back, eyes wide. I hear her pleading whistle, her song, as her scales fold back and as she cowers.

He hefts us up. Belle squeals in terror.

Another roar echoes. But this isn't a typical roar. Because first comes a snap of fingers, echoing through the dark, second comes a earsplitting crack and a fierce golden light, a golden sunlight upon the austere black and white of the surrounding area, before fading into a small twinkle in the distance, like a slice through the world.

We raise our head. He raises his head. The faint whisper of a vortex slips through our mind. We chase after the whisper, still, confused, trying to figure out…

But we are frozen and others are not.

Belle races towards the portal, and we dash after her, but something leaps at us from the side. A pulse of fury through the air, palpable in the shift of scents from sharp and piney to fiercer, wilder tangs. A small thing, a white thing, mauling and snarling. Tiny hands that grip and tear at our clothing and reach and try to sink into our eye sockets, nasty little claws. A little human mouth housing not-quite-so-human fangs. Fangs that hurt as they drive into us again and again.

In an act of fury as we watch the dragon get away, darting towards the portal and away, away, where we know we shall not follow unless we move, we slice. We – it – the sword – cuts cleanly. The beast howls and topples off, coming off in two pieces. An arm falls beside him – his arm? We do not care. Do we? We begin to dash forward again, our steps more heavy. We are annoyed by the weakness of our mortal body and the damage wrought upon it, but confident we'll make it there in time.

On the other side of the portal, of the swirling golden light, we see eyes – eyes that are familiar to us, eyes that almost cause a spark of emotion, a pang of loss. If they had not been so horrified, that is.

The white one slams into us again. Being cut into two has only riled its fury, as it slams against us harder, driving fangs into us all over. Up our back, up our neck, slicing with claws.

"YOU KILLED HER!"

High, shrill. Painful.

Why is our master making us do this? We do not want to. We do not want to.

"I HATE YOU!"

Annoyed, we slam out a wing, throwing him against a tree with a resounding crack – we see his wing, the beast's, snap in two, pinned between the collison. He howls in pain, the pitiful ki-yi of a puppy, of a child. We turn away, he shall not live, not with the crimson blood spilling over his white skin, turn to see the dragon take a flying leap and land in the arms of the person waiting on the other side.

The person bundles the dragon in her arms, but she doesn't close the vortex yet. Waiting. Waiting for what? For whom? For the white one?

Determination strikes in our heart. The tiny monster has stalled us too much, we shall not let the other escape. We cannot. A sin, a sin, a most grievous sin, that must be righted.

Again, the white one pushes itself to its feet, but this time, it has a different agenda. The gateway shall not last long. It sees this. Scrambling to its feet, unbalanced, awkward, the creature dashes forward. He runs faster than us, even with one arm and half a leg gone.

Fury, mad, blinded fury, surges through us. How dare he, how dare he –

_And suddenly, I'm seeing from a different viewpoint, with a new master, one with a tiny, quivering dragon tucked into her arms, hissing fearfully and shaking so violently the world could end._ And we see him – that tiny, quivering victim on the other side, eyes brimming with tears flowing down his albino cheeks, dashing toward us, sobbing a name. He holds out his one arm as he runs, an unspoken plea for a hug, for an embrace, from the last member of family he has left, and then –

The creature, dark and twisted, behind him roars. It charges, lips twisted in a foul sneer, towards the portal. Choking on his words, the little child flinches away, releasing a yelp of fear.

He hesitates, looking from the giant to our master, and we want to scream. Save him. Save him. We can. Why aren't we? Why aren't we?

She tells us. I tell us. She's frozen in agony, she lets this slip from her mind. She can't let the boy come here. Even if she could, He would get through as well.

The child sees this too.

The boy glances back at the wretched creature, then at us once more. His face contorts with a bone-deep terror. A sob rasps from his chest, and brokenly, he repeats her name one last time.

"Penryn," he hiccups. "Penryn."

Turning his back on us, he braces himself, and lunges towards the beast. The portal shrinks, growing smaller, smaller. The dragon in her arms wails and tries to leap toward, claws braced. The last thing seen of the boy before the portal pops shut is him being lifted on that terrible sword, bloodstained and shattered, and sliding down further onto the hilt. Skewered through the middle.

Crying.

Screaming.

"Oh, no," my own voice whispers brokenly. "Oh, no, oh, no, oh God. No."

_The sword clatters against the cobblestone. I gasp, throwing myself backwards, landing upon the coarse ground, scooting back. Anything to distance us. _

_"__What the hell," I whisper to myself, blinking, throwing a hand out to guard myself from… nothing. Black Wolf is gone. Tremors rock my body. "What the hell. What the actual hell."_

_The sword sits, winking cleverly back at me, almost like a grin. My stomach convulses, but it's empty. Perhaps there was nothing ever in it in these dark halls. Leaning one arm against the wall, I dry-heave terribly for a few seconds, shaking and shivering, dry throat becoming even drier. _

_Between the spasms of my muscles, I find myself glancing up at the moon above. Why did he leave this here? Why? I didn't… I didn't want to know this. I didn't want any of this. Wiping at the corners of my mouth and wrapping myself up in a big hug, I whimper, staring up at the moon. _

_Penryn. Lucius's words. Penryn. _

_That sword. Those hands. Paige. _

_YOU KILLED HER. _

_"__I have to know." I whisper it for my own ears, trying to convince myself. I ignore the terror in my gut, scooting closer to the sword – is it mad? Is it crazy? Is that why it's acting so aggressive? "I want you… to show me other things. Show me happy times."_

_I place my hand tentatively on the sword hilt. And it replies again. I am in its world once more. _

_I have a proposition to make you. _From the shadows slinks a creature, once with shimmering scales, now turned dull, once with sparkling eyes, now flat as riverstones. _I have a feeling you'll be interested. _

We turn and draw our sword, wary.

_There's no need for that. _Theobella, the Tyab'la, one of them, smiles wickedly, jaws full of pearly white teeth. I think you'll be quite interested in this deal._ It has to do with your Daughter of Man, after all, and all this… chastity. _

The world around me dissolves into her huge smile, becoming golden and pulling and stretching at my mind, at our feathers, unlike anything we've ever experienced, and then – I see me again.

My hair is longer than it is now, tied back in a ponytail. My eyes have bags beneath them and dirt smudges at my cheekbone, but our vision seems slightly tainted – despite the imperfections I see in the older me's face, we don't care. I look beautiful.

But I'm angry, hissing under my breath, clubbing a finger at us.

"You need to stop this!" she's – I'm – shouting. "How do you think he feels when you look at him like that, huh? Do you even care?"

"How do you think I felt when he looked at you like a slab of meat, huh?" we shoot back, but I'm not quite able to place our voice. "It doesn't matter. I don't understand how you're all being civil around him. He's a monster. For God's sake, Penryn, do you see what he forced your own sister to go through?"

"Precisely." My eyes narrow furiously. "He's my nephew, and guess what? He's yours, too. Maybe you should stop being less of an asshole whenever he enters the room –"

"He asks for it!"

"He does not!" Penryn – I? – cries in exasperation. "Look, if you're so wound up about him becoming a monster in the future – have you ever wondered if you're the one doing it? All this hate will make him wretched. It will make him everything you're afraid of. Stop making him hate you."

"So I'm the reason he's a monster?" we sneer. Catching a glimpse of white in the doorway, where he believes he's hidden by the shadows, we curl our lip further and barb our words. "You could raise that monster in a field of flowers and daisies and he'd still grow up to be terrible. He's a monster. No angel comes equipped with poisonous fangs."

Content, we settle back on our feet. In the hall, the boy catches his breath and races off, his feet thumping loudly down the hallway. Penryn, I, whoever, turns, eyes blown wide, listening as he slams his door shut and locks himself in his room.

Whipping back around with livid eyes, the other Penryn hisses, "You're right. Apparently, angels come equipped with poisonous tongues."

Furiously, she turns her back on us and stalks out.

A fragment of fire pierces through the sunny images. Of a house going up in flames. Of a terrible black figure, crouched upon the roof, waiting for the inhabitants to flee the fire. An ambush of the deadliest sort. Of a woman charging out first, followed by streaks of fleeing creatures.

Then a tiny Lucius is offering us a flower. He's babbling childishly, smugly stating that he grew it "aw by his sef" and that "I wan' you ta' haf it!" His bronze eyes shine and shimmer with hope. But then we say something, something cruel that I don't quite understand, and his expression shatters.

Paige appears again. Beautiful, rosy-cheeked, black hair bound back in a messy bun. Her clothing is loose and generous, not quite wide enough around the swollen belly evident of a pregnancy.

"We already know who's gonna be coming out of here," hums an older Emilio with a sleek bronze eyepatch. The sight of him sends a small flash of irritation through us, especially as he tousles Paige's hair slightly. "But we decided to name him something anyway."

"He needs a proper name," Paige agrees, her voice soft and musical, glancing from us to… another me. Another me again. Dressed in old clothing. Looking on scathingly. "We were thinking, name him after the best our family has to offer, right?"

"Right," agrees that other me cautiously, cocking an eyebrow. There's something in her gaze – my gaze? I still don't know – that puzzles us, almost a grim sort of recognition, like she's bracing herself for a blow.

"Bryon Junior." Paige beams, cupping her stomach. "Bryon Junior, wouldn't you think? And I've always loved the name Frederick, so –"

"I had no choice in this, of course," Emilio breaks in with a humble laugh.

"So," Paige stresses, elbowing Emilio and rolling her eyes. "I think I want to name him Bryon Jr. Fredrick."

She smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "Bryon Jr. Fredrick Young."

_"__Penryn."_

_A cool hand overlaps mine, breaking off my connection with the sword. Gasping, I attempt to swing the sword towards the sudden presence. I lose my balance when the hand holds steady and keeps the blade firmly in place, instead hurling my body weight against the wall. _

_Terrified, I turn to face my intruder, and find myself staring into my own reflection in mirrored sunglasses lenses. _

_"__What is this?" Lucius asks coolly, as if his spite of the sword is not visible to me, as if I can't see the subtle way his lips twist downwards this close to him. _

_"__Oh my God," I whisper, letting the sword clatter to the floor, a seizure ripping through me. "Bryon."_

_Lucius cocks his head. His mouth opens slightly, but is snaps shut again. "Excuse me?"_

_"__Bryon Jr." I press myself back against the window, shivering. "Bryon Jr. Young. You're my…"_

_He stands abruptly, seeming troubled. Anxiously, he rakes a hand through his hair. "Who told you that? Was it Ogden?"_

_"__The sword… the sword."_

_Lips pulling back into a snarl, Lucius glares down at me. "I see. And how exactly did you get a hand on… that sword?" _

_He speaks as if it's revolting to him. As if it's terrible. He doesn't even seem able to make himself look at it. _

_"__I… I…" My vision is fading, my strength is leaving me. Upon realization, my heart stutters fearfully, but the sword has sapped too much of my strength to really put up any sort of fight against sleep. "Black Wolf…"_

_"__That bastard," Lucius mumbles, kneeling down again. "Come here, sleepy Young. Let's get you home."_

_I barely have the lucidity to mutter a protest as he scoops me up into his wiry arms. Lucius's cold, cold arms are welcoming to the feverishness claiming my weary limbs. _

_"__Calm, now," Lucius whispers, his voice filled with some unplaceable emotion. "Shh. Sleep. Or, more accurately, wake. You'll remember none of this. You'll remember none of it. None of it at all."_

* * *

"And so that's how it happens, then?" Ariel whispers, her heart pounding in her chest. "Raphael killed her? He – oh, no, Lucius, oh, no."

"I spent centuries trying to figure out what happened." Wearily, he paws at his face with one hand, rubbing his eyes. "How I could – brace myself against what would happen. I knew it was coming, I knew that Belle and Penryn and all of them – we'd have her stolen from us. So I – I –"

"You made yourself stronger," Ariel says evenly, finishing for him. "You prepared yourself. You blamed him for everything you went through. And your hate blindsided you to the effects of the deal you struck."

"I never would've imagined, Ariel –" He rakes his hands through his hair. "I caused it all. I am the reason I exist. I am an anomaly. I do not belong in this world."

"But Raffe –" She bites her tongue. "What happens to him?"

"Eventually, he gets sent back to the same time period he left." Lucius peels an eye open. "He's filled with hatred more blind than me, pumped full of my poison and brain addled by my gaze. He doesn't _understand_ why he's like this way. He only has the barest memory of the greatness he used to be, and when he tried to figure out what changed, he only came up with a love for Nephilim. His Nephilim baby girl. Me. Penryn. He chases Penryn ruthlessly, an invincible tank in that other world. He –"

Lucius cuts off with a dark rumble.

"You've said enough, Lucius," Ariel soothes. "If you want to stop – you can."

"No, it's just –" Lucius puffs out a deep breath. "There's a lot of background and a lot of emotion. I'm confused is all."

"You have every reason to be." Ariel rubs at her forehead. "Bryon was the only one that knew about all of this, right? But he didn't do anything because of the Tyab'la?"

"Yes. That was frustrating – I didn't know what he was doing."

She quietly turns her gaze up at her plain white ceiling. "He died, and now no one knows. How have you been even… talking to Penryn? Paige? Hell, Raphael?"

"It's been hard," he laughs with a bit more life, "but I'm not a wet towel. The hardest part has been stepping back. Not saying anything, letting them go to their fates themselves. I learned my lesson with that deal, and any tinkering will just make things worse, and… I'm growing from it, I believe. I mean, I finally got rid of my dad. Good on me there."

Ariel shifts uncomfortably. "I don't quite know –"

"And I'm not sharing."

She nods, feeling that her prying had become too desperate, harboring respect for him for capping her question quite so quickly. "Of course. …So you and Raphael… will you tell him nothing?"

"We're a cycle, Ariel," Lucius says quietly. "He and I, we drive each other mad, we see the worst of each other and then when we are introduced to the fresh clay to mold, we can still only see the worst. …It's not a perfect system, but… oh well."

"I understand." Ariel rises, her gown swooping around her legs. "Out of respect for your story, I will treat them no differently nor share it with anyone."

Taking note of her silent dismissal, Lucius rises, dipping his head. "Thank you, Ariel. For listening to me. It's… odd, having someone do that. Might I issue a token of advice in return?"

She inclines her head, studying him, trying to see past the stony veil his glasses create. "I will never turn down advice."

"You look simply stunning in black and gold gowns, but they're all I've ever seen you wear." He smirks, cocking his head to one side. "Experiment. White and yellow, bronze, green – oh, a lush peacock green would look simply exquisite. Your body is yours and yours to decorate. Have fun with it."

Ariel's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Here I am expecting a critique on my leadership, not my wardrobe. Sound advice, I will admit. Why are you giving it?"

"Because I love beauty." Lucius smiles, a real smile, one so genuine and warm that it almost makes up from the daggerish teeth needling through it. "I love looking incredible. If I could have a chance to, I'd love a chance to illuminate my lips and draw attention to my eyes. You are very beautiful, with very beautiful lips and very beautiful eyes. It's a pity to waste them."

"Makeup?" She studies him. "I would not take you to be the type."

He waves a hand dismissively. "I grew up in a time where it was not socially acceptable for any gender to walk without it. I always did my mother's – and Penryn's, dear God, she was a disaster."

Ariel smiles back at him, allowing herself a real smile as well. "Well, since the way I conduct myself is dissatisfying, feel free to drop by anytime to assist me with an outfit."

Lucius puffs out a huge sigh, miming exasperation. "Thank goodness. I thought you'd never offer." His smile returns in all its spiky radiance. "And if you ever find yourself in a bad situation… well. You'll find a menacing demon often dissuades argument."

"I'll keep that in mind." Ariel finds her smile fading. "Lucius, I know very little about you, and that I do know is… mysterious. But I do hope that you do not hesitate to speak to me if you ever need to get anything off your chest again."

"I won't." He waves, turning his back on Ariel in his usual manner, but something seems far more… loose in his stance. "Good day, Ariel. And… thank you. I'm only ever a snap away."

* * *

**I'm not the happiest with this but oh well. I hope you guys enjoyed.**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


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